How They Didn't Find Out
by Fulgance
Summary: "His pulse has sky-rocketed, his heart thudding as fast as a rabbit's; but at the same time there's a strange giddiness beyond the panic, something delighted and freed, and Merlin wonders if this is what truth feels like." A series of magical reveal one-shots. Some are slash, some are not. Canon Era.
1. Somewhere I Fit In

**Having discovered the Merlin fandom, I think the one thing I like most about it are the reveal fics. I could read hundreds of them and still not have enough. **

**This is a series of magical reveals, all unrelated and all standalones. Most of them involve Arthur, but not all. Here is the first.**

**This one was a bit of an experimentation in style. I don't usually (or ever) write in this format. But I like the result.**

* * *

**Summary: **Arthur knows there's _something_. Something that's keeping Merlin back, something that makes him unable to accept Camelot as his home – as the place where he _belongs_.  
There's a lie somewhere, lurking beneath the surface.

(Post 1x10 The Moment of Truth.)

* * *

**Somewhere I Fit In**

* * *

_"_I just didn't fit in anymore. I wanted to find somewhere that I did."

"Had any luck?"

It's a simple enough question, but Merlin hesitates and Arthur's heart sinks. He's not sure why he even asked – why he even cares – but he did, and he does. There's no reason to be asking all these questions, except that maybe some part of him has just realised how little he knows of the man who serves him and would die for him.

Then again, there's no reason to even be here in Ealdor, defending a village outside the Camelot border. No reason except Merlin, and that's no reason at all.

(It's every reason.)

...

"Not sure yet," Merlin says finally.

And Arthur doesn't ask what that means, because he's asked enough questions for one night, and because he's thinking of something else now.

When did Merlin became important enough to be worth risking his life?

…

It was a simple enough question, but for the following weeks the answer rolls around in Arthur's head. _"Not sure yet."_ If Merlin had said _no_, he probably would have taken it better. Arthur wonders what's missing for Merlin to be able to give a definite yes or no answer, because there must be _something_.

But he doesn't ask, because he shouldn't care. He shouldn't care about something as stupid as Merlin being able to give a yes or no answer.

(He shouldn't want that answer to be_ yes_.)

…

And then poison comes into the equation, and Arthur is scared for what seems like the first time in his life. Merlin, stupid Merlin has followed him into the labyrinth of Gedref and he's not going anywhere.

He wants to drink poison for Arthur.

When Arthur says, "I had no idea you were so keen to die for me," it's a lie. Because he knew, and he knows. Merlin is that kind of person.

And when Merlin says, "Trust me, I can hardly believe it myself," that's also a lie and they both know it. Merlin drank poison in his place once, and Arthur will be damned if he lets that happen again. But –

"I'm glad you're here, Merlin."

That one isn't a lie.

And that's why, Arthur realises, _that's why_ he so desperately wants Merlin to feel like he fits in. Because to Arthur, Merlin is a piece of a puzzle, an _important_ piece of something that can't be whole without him. Arthur wants Merlin to feel that. He can't stand that he doesn't.

...

When Arthur wakes up after drinking the poison-that-was-not-poison, Merlin is there, eyes watchful and serious. Relieved. A smile spreads across his face, but it's strained and only half-there.

"I'm not dead." Arthur pauses. "Why am I not dead?"

"I was right," Merlin says. "You can't die. Maybe next time you'll listen to me."

Arthur smiles back. "What really happened?"

"It was your test. If you were willing to die, then... you wouldn't die."

"What a stupid test."

Merlin looks away. "Tell me about it."

"What's wrong?"

Merlin shrugs, like it's nothing – but it isn't.

"Tell me," Arthur says in his _I'm-a-prince_ voice, and Merlin looks up and smiles half-heartedly when he hears it. Which, usually, is the only reaction Arthur's orders get from him.

(He doesn't know why he allows it, but Arthur can't imagine it any other way.)

"I thought you were going to die," Merlin says.

"So did I."

"You really shouldn't go around offering to sacrifice yourself for others. Your life is too important."

Arthur looks at him, really looks at him. There's something in his tone, a strange weight that goes beyond the fear of losing a – a prince, a master, a friend. Arthur gets the feeling there's more to the sentence than he can grasp at the moment.

"And yours isn't?"

"Not as much as yours," Merlin says, and Arthur can tell he truly believes it.

(And really, there's no reason he _shouldn't_, except that Arthur disagrees.)

Arthur asks, "Had any luck?"

Merlin blinks. "What?"

Arthur looks at him.

"Oh," Merlin says, and this time Arthur is looking at him and can see the way his gaze shifts away when he says, "Not yet."

"What –" Arthur begins, but stops because... Because.

Because of princes and servants and a friendship that can't be even though it already _is_.

(And always will be.)

…  
The question becomes a regular thing, and the answer never varies.

…

_What would it take for you to feel like you fit in?_

That question is never asked.

...

Life goes on. Years pass. Things happen.

...

Things like Arthur temporarily taking on a new servant, that complete sleaze Cedric (but what a competent, well-mannered sleaze), and said new servant turning out to be a conniving bastard, and Merlin – Merlin hardly saying a word when Arthur unceremoniously gives him his job back without so much as an apology or an admission that he was wrong.

(He was wrong.)

Later that same day, Arthur finds Merlin while he is still polishing his armour. Standing in the doorway, he watches Merlin in silence for several minutes (far longer than necessary) before asking, quietly:

"Had any luck yet?"

Merlin doesn't even jump, which makes Arthur wonder how long he's been aware of him standing there.

(Probably since he arrived.)

Merlin glances up and smiles, and the smile holds no resentment. "Not yet," he says.

For the first time, Arthur can't blame him.

...

Things like Uther calling in the witchfinder, Aredian – and Merlin being accused of sorcery.

(Unthinkable.)

…

Gaius protects Merlin, and Aredian is gleeful. Merlin calls him a liar, and – and Arthur half-carries him out of the Great Hall and down to the dungeons to see Gaius.

He breaks the law for a manservant, and he can't bring himself to care.

(And he's glad, so stupidly glad, when Aredian is found to be a liar.)

…

Things like a dragon being released and Merlin going out to battle beside him.

That, that right there has got to be the most terrible, stupid, beautiful thing Arthur has ever witnessed. Merlin, who despite the knights' best efforts is still only just about passable with any weapon, Merlin who hates fighting, blood, and death, Merlin whom Arthur always calls a coward chooses to accompany him on a suicide mission. Chooses to die by Arthur's side.

And maybe it's because Merlin is not bound by honour, but only by choice, that this seems to mean so much more to Arthur than the knights who decided to face the dragon with him.

Merlin survives, somehow, as does Arthur.

It's not right that Arthur can be devastated at the loss of so many good knights and yet at the same time feel a serene gladness fill him when Merlin returns to Camelot safe and sound at his side.

(Where he always is.)

It isn't a surprise to either of them when Arthur asks – and he doesn't care that the repeated question makes his feelings obvious – "Had any luck?"

…  
It's still painful when Merlin shakes his head and says, "Not yet," without even pausing to think.

…

Arthur knows there's _something_. Something that's keeping Merlin back, something that makes him unable to accept Camelot as his home – as the place where he _belongs_.

(Because he does belong.)

Merlin would give his life for Arthur. Merlin believes in Camelot and the values Arthur defends and everything Arthur stands for. Merlin serves and serves well, whatever Arthur may say, and he likes Arthur.

So what is it?

There's a lie somewhere, lurking beneath the surface.

…

Arthur is jealous of Gwaine.

Not _of_ Gwaine, exactly. Just... of the way everything seems to be easy between him and Merlin. Easy banter, easy smiles, easy laughter, easy friendliness. He sees Gwaine clap Merlin on the shoulder, or pull him into a hug, and something twinges in his heart because – this is what they can never have.

Not while Arthur is a prince.  
Not while Merlin is a liar.

If Arthur is at all glad when Gwaine has to leave Camelot, the feeling fades quickly when Merlin spends the next few days quiet and sullen, missing his new friend.

The friend Arthur can't be.

The question goes unasked this time, but the answer is plain in Merlin's eyes.

…

Arthur fears the day "Not yet" will turn to "No."

…

One day, Arthur does ask: "What would it take? For you to feel like you fit in here. Like you belonged."

Merlin looks up at him. "My place is by your side," he says, without a trace of irony.

Arthur's heart leaps in his throat, but – it's not really an answer. "I meant –"

"I know what you meant." Merlin looks down at his hands. "It's nothing you can give me, Arthur. Trust me."

And Arthur does. Implicitly. Unwaveringly. With his life.

...

Arthur isn't sure exactly when he figures it out, or why. Maybe it's the ungodly amount of chores Merlin manages to get through with inhuman speed that one time Arthur foists everything to be done before a tournament on him. Maybe it's the goddamn luck that Arthur seems to have, that over the past few years has made him wonder more than once whether he had a guardian angel. Or maybe it's something as simple as the look on Merlin's face whenever magic is mentioned, a look that's not quite fear but almost could be.

(There are few things Merlin is afraid of, and magic is not one of them.)

It's always been there, staring him in the face, but one day – one day everything slots into place and he _gets it_.

…

"I know," Arthur says one night as he's sitting on the edge of his bed, staring straight ahead at the wall.

Merlin is standing several feet away, ostentatiously looking out the window and _not working_. "You know what?" he asks uninterestedly, his breath fogging up the glass.

"That you – you have magic."

He hears Merlin's sharp intake of breath, sees the way his fingers clench reflexively into a fist. And yet Merlin's voice is only slightly strained when he says:

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

Merlin turns, his eyes blown wide with fear. "Of course it is. You – you can't be serious. Do you realise what you're saying? Your father –"

"That's why, isn't it?" Arthur asks. "That's why you never felt like you fit in in Camelot."

"Is that what this is about? You shouldn't speculate, Arthur. That – that was ages ago."

"Yes, it was," Arthur agrees. "And you never once thought to tell me the truth. Never once thought that I deserved to know."

"There was nothing to know –"

"Don't lie to me. I know, Merlin. I _know_. I know you have magic."

There's this look in Merlin's eyes, like his world is ending and he's powerless to keep it from happening. Arthur feels like he might be sick. He watches, and waits, but Merlin only stands there. The colour has drained from his face and his breath is coming in short bursts.

Fear.

"Gods," Arthur says, and stands up abruptly, but when Merlin flinches he freezes instead of stepping forward. "Gods, Merlin, do you really think –"

Merlin is shaking like a leaf.

Yes, he really does.

"I'm not doing a very good job of this, am I?" Arthur asks.

Merlin's eyes are still wide and he looks for all the world like a cornered wild animal, not like the best friend Arthur has ever had.

"I trust you," Arthur says, and knows in his gut that it's true. "So just – trust me. I need you to trust me."

"I'm sorry," Merlin says finally. "I'm sorry, Arthur, I just –"

He stops, because his voice cracks on the last word and he can't seem to go on. He draws in a choked breath and blinks rapidly.

"Merlin," Arthur says. "It's _all right_. Really."

Merlin stares at him.

"I mean it. I – I've known for a while now. I was hoping you would tell me, but – you haven't, not in the years we've known each other, so I knew that was never going to happen." Arthur watches him closely. "I wish you'd trusted me."

"I'm sorry," Merlin says again, but this time the words seem to come out with less difficulty, and there's a light in his eyes that wasn't there before. "Are you saying –"

"I know," Arthur says, "and I think – I think I know what you've been doing, all these years." He hesitates. "Thank you."

Merlin looks stunned. He steps forward, a little warily, but at least it's not outright fear anymore. He smiles tentatively, and slides his hand into Arthur's.

"You don't have to thank me," Merlin says, his fingers entwining themselves around Arthur's. "This is what I was born for. This is where I _belong_."

It's a prompt, and Arthur gladly accepts it.

"Had any luck yet, Merlin?"

He pulls Merlin into his arms, gently, and they just _fit_, like they've been waiting a thousand years for this. Truth tastes sweet in the air between them. Merlin smiles up at him, a brilliant smile that could illuminate the entire city, and he doesn't answer.

He doesn't need to.


	2. If It Could Save Your Life

**A bit on the melodramatic side.**

**By the way, the next one-shot/chapter will be posted on Wednesday.**

**Summary: **"Don't _talk_," Arthur said. "For the love of God, don't talk."  
"Have to." Merlin opened his eyes; blue sought out blue and latched there, desperate. "When else will I be able to?"

* * *

**If It Could Save Your Life**

* * *

He knelt beside Merlin, rolled him over and brushed the dirt off his face, and grabbed at his shoulders desperately. Merlin's face was ashen, and there was blood on the ground and blood on his hands and blood on his shirt, and he cried out when Arthur touched him. Arthur's hands frantically peeled Merlin's shirt away from the wound, baring the open flesh.

"Tell me what to do," Arthur pleaded. "You know – you've watched Gaius – tell me what to do."

Merlin heaved in a long, shuddering breath. "'s the point... Going to die anyway, aren't I? If it wasn't this, then... your father..."

Arthur jerked back so sharply his fingers dragged across the wound. Merlin closed his eyes briefly and went whiter still, but his lips were tightly pressed together and he said nothing when he looked back up at Arthur.

"I wouldn't let him – I wouldn't – don't be _stupid_, Merlin. You're not going to die."

Arthur heard his voice crack on the last word and swore under his breath. Merlin's lips curled upwards slightly at the corners.

"You've had worse," Arthur said, looking down at the blood on his hands and feeling sick. "I think."

Merlin gave a thin, shaky laugh, then winced.

"Tell me what to do," Arthur said again. "You brought supplies, right? Bandages and – and things."

Merlin shook his head. "There's... nothing you can do."

"Surely..." Arthur hesitated, hating the words before he even spoke them. "Surely your magic..."

Merlin seemed to know how much it cost him to say it, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. And, gods, Arthur didn't have the time to feel angry, or betrayed; that would come later, when this was over, when this hot panic wasn't coursing through him.

"I'm useless at healing," Merlin said.

"And here I thought there had to be at least one thing you were good at."

Merlin smiled faintly, and shook his head again, sucking in another harsh breath as the smile disappeared.

"Does it hurt that bad?"

"It's fine."

"No, it's not."

"It hurts... to breathe." Merlin closed his eyes. "Arthur, would you..."

"Whatever you want."

"Just..."

Merlin moved his fingers. The knot in Arthur's throat drew tighter and wordlessly he reached out, taking Merlin's hand. It felt cold and clammy beneath his own. Merlin's blood was still wet on Arthur's palm.

"I never... used magic to hurt you," Merlin said with difficulty. "You have to know, I would _never_..."

"Shh," Arthur said as Merlin's fingers tightened around his almost as in a spasm. "Save your strength. I know, Merlin, of course I know. I... You've obviously not been honest about everything – or anything, really –, but I _know_ your loyalty is to Camelot."

"It isn't," Merlin said, his thumb stroking across the back of Arthur's hand. "My loyalty lies with you, Arthur. Only you. Camelot means... nothing without you." He paused to regain his breath. "I'm sorry I lied."

"Don't _talk_," Arthur said. "For the love of God, don't talk."

"Have to." Merlin opened his eyes; blue sought out blue and latched there, desperate. "When else will I be able to?"

Pulling on the steadily draining reserves of his strength, he propped himself up on one elbow. His other hand remained in Arthur's.

"You deserved to know. And I... I always knew that. I'm glad you found out. I'm sorry it had to happen this way, but... I would have told you. Eventually, I would have."

He turned his hand so their palms were pressed together and laced his fingers through Arthur's. His eyes burnt with the heat of a fever and something else, something fierce and desperate.

"I've imagined this moment, you know. Sometimes I was a little less dead than this, but other times... other times I was even further gone."

Arthur knew what that meant, knew that Merlin had believed he could have had him executed. He tried not to linger on how he felt about that, because if he did, he just might end up – but no. _No man is worth your tears_, he told himself fiercely. _No man is worth your tears..._

"I didn't know how you would react," Merlin murmured. "I was a coward. Arthur, tell me... what you're thinking right now. I need to know. I've thought about this... so many times, and –"

"Gods, _Merlin_. We'll talk about this later, all right? There are other things –"

"There will be no 'later,'" Merlin said, with a finality that sent a chill running up Arthur's spine.

_No._  
Arthur's stomach dropped. He felt cold now, as cold as death itself, colder than Merlin's hand in his. His eyes prickled dangerously. _No man is worth your tears._

"Don't do this to me. I don't want to lose you. I _can't _lose you."

"I'm sorry, Arthur. For... everything."

"There has to be a way," Arthur said. "How am I supposed to survive without you?"

"You won't... last a day," Merlin said, humour sparking in his feverish eyes. "I was meant to protect you."

The words triggered a memory in Arthur's mind. _"I swear I will protect you or die at your side."_ And now Merlin was honouring that oath, and Arthur wished he wouldn't.

"I suppose... now I've failed."

"You've never failed me."

"I lied to you."

"Yes," Arthur said, "and if you weren't in this state you'd be getting an earful about that. But not now, Merlin, for God's sake not _now_. There _has_ to be something, anything –"

"Don't, Arthur. Just..." Merlin seemed to struggle for breath; he blinked several times as though he were trying to focus his vision. "Please, just... stay?"

"Yeah," Arthur said, his throat closing up and a dull pain settling in his chest. "Of course. I'm right here."

"Will you... talk to me?"

"What about?"

"I'm sure you can... think of something."

"You're the one who always prattles on about nonsense, not me." Arthur looked down at him, at Merlin's white face and his pained expression, and somehow found the words. "I just... You've done a lot for me, haven't you? I don't know what I'd do without you. I hate that you didn't tell me about the magic –" and he could hate himself for bringing it up, but the only thoughts in his head at the moment were _magic_ and _you can't die_, so he chose the lesser of two evils – "but I understand why. If things were different I would be furious, but... I can't just now, can I?"

_You're dying for me and there's nothing I can do about it and I don't want to watch you die and if you pull through, I swear, I'll never say anything bad about magic again._

"Why did you do it? Throwing yourself in front of that blast – that was a whole new level of stupid."

"I thought my... magic was powerful enough to stop it. I was... wrong." Merlin smiled a little and forced the next sentence out without pausing. "As long as you're alive, it was worth it."

"How many times have you saved my life?"

"I haven't... kept count."

Merlin slid down into the mud again, unable to keep himself propped up on his elbow. Instinctively Arthur moved behind him, letting go of Merlin's hand and instead arranging them so that Merlin's head was in his lap.

"This is comfortable," Merlin said.

Arthur stroked his hair away from his forehead – his drenched, feverish forehead that contrasted sharply with the coldness of his hands.

"Arthur, will you... do something for me?"

"Anything."

"After this, would you..." Merlin drew in a harsh breath; his voice was desperately weak. "Would you try... to rethink some things about magic?"

Arthur stared down at Merlin, his hand suddenly still. "Magic did this to you."

Merlin shook his head. "A _person_ did this to me. Magic isn't... it doesn't act of its own accord. Some people use it... for good."

"Like you, you mean."

"I'm not asking you... to change the law. I just... want you to think about it. My magic is... a part of who I am, and it always has been, and – and I don't want you to hate me for it."

"I don't hate you," Arthur said hoarsely. "Merlin, I'd – I'd change the law in an instant if it could – if it could –"

_If it could save your life_.

"There are others," Merlin said, knowing what Arthur meant without it having to be said.

"It will be the first thing I do when we get back to Camelot," Arthur promised recklessly, the pressure building up behind his eyes. "I'll change everything – you won't have to hide anymore."

"Arthur..." Merlin's voice was weak. "Arthur, we both know I'm not going back."

Arthur shut his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, they were completely dry. _No man is worth your tears_. He couldn't be weak, not now, not when he had to be strong for the both of them. He wouldn't let Merlin down in this of all things. Merlin needed him now, for probably the first time since they'd met.

"Then – then I swear I'll change the law," he said. "I _will_, Merlin. For you, for everything you've done."

Merlin's hand rose, trembling, to cover Arthur's in wordless gratitude, as though words cost him too much energy to be worth it.

"I wish – I wish you hadn't done this," Arthur said. "I should be the one – the one –"

"I would never have let that happen. Don't be sorry, Arthur. I would gladly die... a hundred times for you."

"It shouldn't be like this. I'm not worth it – I'm not worth _you_ – this is too much. You've done too much for Camelot, for _me_."

"For you, Arthur, anything."

And that was the exact moment when Arthur _understood_. All the meaningful glances, the blind devotion Merlin had for him, the support, the silent acceptance of insults and mockery, the light in his eyes when Arthur took him seriously – they all meant something. Something that ran deeper than adoration and was much, much stronger than friendship.

"What am I supposed to do without you?" he asked brokenly.  
And Merlin, Merlin who had never behaved like a servant, Merlin who had teased and mocked and insulted, Merlin in his dying moments breathed out the reverent words that clawed at Arthur's heart and refused to let go.

"You'll still be... a prat. And you're going to be... the greatest king Camelot has ever known, with or without me. I'm a servant, Arthur. Just a servant."

"Stay with me," Arthur begged, recognising a farewell when it was spoken.

The faintest of smiles curled the edges of Merlin's mouth. "When have I ever done as you said?"

"Now's a good time to start," Arthur said desperately. "Just this once, listen to me – don't leave me –"

"Don't – let go," Merlin said, his voice torturously raw.

He blinked slowly, once, twice – on the third time, his eyes remained closed. His breathing was still labourious, growing more and more so by the minute. Arthur closed his eyes, clenching his fingers around Merlin's hand, and focused on the sound of Merlin's breathing.

"I'm never letting go," he whispered.

* * *

In...

Out.

In...

Out.

In...

* * *

"By the way, Arthur..." Merlin's voice was weak and hoarse. His lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "You're welcome."

Arthur didn't trust himself to speak past the lump in his throat; he only squeezed Merlin's hand tighter, trying to anchor him into this world.

* * *

In...

Out.

In...

Out.

In...

* * *

"Merlin," Arthur said, hearing the hitch in that last breath, and suddenly he could speak again, the words ripped from his throat, his soul, his heart, "no, Merlin, don't –"

Merlin's hand fell limp in Arthur's.

He didn't breath out.

"_No. _No, no – For God's sake, Merlin, you're not _just a servant_," Arthur said fiercely, the tears spilling over freely now that Merlin couldn't see them. Raw, jerking sobs racked his shoulders and seared his throat because, by the gods, by all that was sacred in this world – he _was_ worth them, he was worth Arthur's tears and a hundred times more.


	3. A Long Time Coming

**Thank you for the reviews, I really appreciate it. I hope you continue to enjoy these. This one is (very) short but it's sweet, and I'm rather fond of it.**

**I will post the next chapter this weekend or the next.**

* * *

**Summary:** His pulse has sky-rocketed, his heart thudding as fast as a rabbit's; but at the same time there's a strange giddiness beyond the panic, something delighted and freed, and Merlin wonders if this is what truth feels like.

* * *

**A Long Time Coming**

* * *

Arthur is quiet for a very long time after Merlin tells him. Their gazes are locked, neither of them able to look away. The silence is so heavy and drawn-out, the stare so intense and unblinking that Merlin wonders whether his magic is slowing down time of its own accord, aware of the hugeness, the finality of this moment. His pulse has sky-rocketed, his heart thudding as fast as a rabbit's; but at the same time there's a strange giddiness beyond the panic, something delighted and freed, and Merlin wonders if this is what truth feels like.

"Are you afraid?" is the first thing Arthur says.

"Should I be?" Merlin asks.

Arthur's hand reaches out, wrapping itself around Merlin's wrist with unexpected gentleness, and Merlin is not afraid.

"Thank you," Arthur says, "for finally telling me."

Merlin understands, and the intensity of the moment takes on an entirely different meaning.

Arthur already _knew_.

Exactly how long he has known doesn't matter. There's something in the tightness around his eyes, something that speaks of hurt and longing and says, _long enough_. He knows everything, must have guessed it a while ago, must not be as blind as Merlin hoped he was. His eyes are clear and piercing now as they look at Merlin, and his touch burns against Merlin's skin.

Merlin could apologise, but he doesn't think that would help anything. He could say a thousand things, offer a thousand explanations. They are on the tip of his tongue, but something keeps them from coming out. Because if Arthur knows about the magic, then surely he knows this, as well – that there can be no apology, and that Merlin has no regrets.

"You do trust me," Arthur says, and it's not a question, but he sounds awed, and shattered, and incredulous, and –

"Yes," Merlin says softly, because Arthur needs to hear it.

When their lips touch, it's a gentle, barely-there kiss, just a light pressure on Merlin's mouth, but it is enough to send Merlin's entire world shifting. He feels as though the ground has opened up beneath his feet and he is falling, falling into Arthur. This is about more, _so much more_ than magic; this is a moment that could never have been if Merlin's secret had remained unspoken. Now they can have this, now they can be what they were meant to be.

The kiss is light and open and perfect, and Arthur tastes of truth, and it feels like this, too, has been long in coming.


	4. The One Who Saw

**Thank you again to those who reviewed. :)**

**This is based on Episode 4x02 : The Darkest Hour, part two.**

* * *

**Summary: **It had been a gift, a taste of joy and freedom to have someone other than Gaius aware and accepting of his magic. In losing Lancelot, Merlin had lost the closest friend he had in Camelot.

* * *

**The One Who Saw**

* * *

Memories of him flashed by before Merlin's eyes on the ride back to Camelot, and he kept his eyes tightly shut to hold back tears.

Meeting him and liking him instantly, helping him lie to Arthur and helping him become the knight he deserved to be, watching him face the griffin fearlessly and enchanting his lance, the joy of finding him again and of seeing him knighted for the second time, and then – then came all those little memories of passing Lancelot in the corridors of the castle and having his mood brighten just from seeing him, exchanging secret smiles, talking and teasing about magic... All those things that had made Lancelot the very best friend Merlin could have hoped for.

Lancelot had never breathed of a word of what he knew, not to anyone. He had known who Merlin really was and he had accepted it, had liked him just the same, and in the end he had died for him.

Merlin knew it was his fault. Lancelot had not _needed_ to walk into the veil to save Arthur. It was Merlin's life he had saved, as he had the first time they'd met. Only this time, Merlin would never be able to return the favour. And now they were riding back to Camelot without him, without even his body for a proper ceremony. With nothing except memories of the bravest, most noble man they would ever meet.

_"I look at you, and I wonder about myself. Could I knowingly give up my life for something?"_

He shouldn't have. He hadn't needed to. Merlin kept thinking back to the moment, thinking of what he could have done to stop it. He knew, deep down in his gut, that just as he would willingly have died for Arthur, he would have died to prevent Lancelot's sacrifice if he could have. But guilt gnawed at him, tugging painfully in his chest, and –

"Merlin."

Percival's voice was low and quiet, but it startled Merlin out of his thoughts. He blinked and opened his eyes, surprised to find Percival so close. The knight had slowed his horse down until he was riding alongside Merlin, and Merlin hadn't even noticed.

"I know you don't want to talk about it," Percival said. "And I understand that. But you were there, and I – I need to know..."

Merlin sucked in a breath and looked more closely at Percival. Percival, who had first come to Arthur by Lancelot's side. The two knights had been close, though Merlin had never thought to ask Lancelot how they'd met. He'd been too wrapped up in his own friendship with Lancelot to pay attention. Now, looking at Percival's grave expression and not missing the fragility in his eyes that said it was taking all of his self-control not to break down, Merlin felt guilty about that. He felt guilty about _everything_.

"Arthur wanted to walk into the veil," Merlin said. His voice sounded hollow even to him. "I wouldn't let him, and I – I was going to take his place when Lancelot –" He stopped, and closed his eyes again. "Lancelot walked through the veil. There was nothing I could do to stop him. I didn't even notice him until it was too late." He opened his eyes again, and Percival's shattered expression grounded him somehow. "He was – that kind of man."

Percival nodded slowly, and blinked. "He was," he said hoarsely. "And – he did it for you?"

Merlin flinched, feeling the weight of reproach settle on his shoulders even though he knew Percival hadn't meant it that way. "I wish he hadn't," he said, as though that mattered, as though it meant anything now.

He felt the need to justify himself, to justify Lancelot, who had not just sacrificed himself for a servant. Lancelot had felt that Merlin's life was more important than his – that to die if Merlin lived was _worth it_ – why? Merlin had looked into the veil and acknowledged it as his destiny. He had been ready to die for Arthur's sake, because he was Arthur's, wholly and completely. But Lancelot? Lancelot was so much more than that. He had been – noble, and brave, and loyal to a fault. He had been honest and true and a great friend, and he would be missed more than Merlin would have been. One just had to look at Percival's expression to see that.

But Lancelot had believed that Merlin's life was more valuable.

"He – he was my friend," Merlin said. "You can't begin to imagine –" He bit his tongue, because that sounded condescending, and tried again. "He knew things about me that –"

"Merlin," Percival said quietly, his expression pained. "I understand."

Merlin shut up. _Do you?_ he wondered. _Do you really?_ And of course Percival didn't, because – how could he? Lancelot had been the only knight who knew Merlin's secret, knew how many times Merlin had saved Arthur's life. And if he was dead now, it was because he had believed that Merlin would need to do it again.

"The first time I met Lancelot," Percival said, his voice steady but softened by fondness and regret, "he saved my life."

Merlin smiled despite himself. "Yes, he seems to be good at doing that."

"It was just who he _was_," Percival went on. "Being knights together, I've had the occasion to repay him countless times, but – it's the first time that counts, isn't it? It can never be fully repaid. He owed me nothing, he didn't even know me, and he chose to risk his life to save mine. I've never forgotten it. If I had known what was going to happen, I would have followed him. But –" He stopped.

"You were needed," Merlin said gently. "You had to fight. You risked your life, too –"

"He didn't risk his life," Percival cut in. "He _gave_ it. There's a difference. Any knight is capable of the former, but Lancelot... Lancelot was something else."  
Merlin nodded.

"When I came to Camelot with you," Percival said, "to fight against Morgana's immortal army... I hated Cenred, for what he had done to my family. But not enough to walk into a hopeless battle. I went because Lancelot wanted to go. He told me about Arthur." Percival gave him a heavy, knowing look. "About you, as well. He cared about you, Merlin. Said that – that you were special."

Merlin's throat closed up, choking him. Even if he had been able to talk, he would not have known what to say.

"For what it's worth," Percival said, and his next words were worth their weight in gold, "I understand that he must have had his reasons."

He didn't ask, and Merlin didn't offer. But something like understanding passed between them, and the weight on Merlin's shoulders eased a little.

* * *

The flashes returned when the funeral pyre was lit and Lancelot's cloak caught fire. Merlin stared into the flames, feeling hot tears prick his eyes and roll down his cheeks, unchecked. Lancelot in battle, so skillful with a sword, so courageous and unfaltering. Lancelot seated at a table during a feast, calling Merlin over not to fill his cup but to talk to as an equal. Lancelot, smiling as he walked into the veil. He had _smiled_ at Merlin. A smile that said, _You're not to blame_ and _I'm sorry_ and _Thank you_ all at once.

_"I look at you, and I wonder about myself."_

_But when I looked at you_, thought Merlin, _I saw all that Camelot will one day be, and now you've taken that from me._

A hand settled on his shoulder, a friendly comfort, and Merlin turned his head slightly to look at Gwaine. His eyes were shining, but he offered Merlin a small smile that spoke of sympathy and Merlin wondered, did he know? Did he know how much Lancelot had meant to Merlin?

_Could_ he know? It had been a gift, a taste of joy and freedom to have someone other than Gaius aware and accepting of his magic. Yes, he placed Arthur above all others, but Arthur didn't know the truth – could never know the truth – and that was enough to erect a barrier between them, a distance far greater than the one between master and servant. In losing Lancelot, Merlin had lost the closest friend he had in Camelot.

The warm weight of Gwaine's hand on his shoulder could not shake the empty feeling inside him, and he felt himself tremble as a silent sob rose in his throat.

* * *

Merlin spent a long time walking in circles around the castle that night, thinking and dreaming, missing and regretting, wishing and wanting. It was hours before he returned to his room, knowing that he would not be able to sleep anyway. He opened the door to his room as silently as he could so as to not wake Gaius up, and almost gasped when he saw Gwaine reclining on his bed, eyes half-closed. The knight sat up when he heard him enter, and gave Merlin a strange, unreadable look.

"There you are," he said. "Finally."

"How long have you been here?" Merlin asked, casting a nervous glance around the room.

Nothing seemed to have been moved, and the loose floorboard under which he hid his book of spells was still in place. He relaxed slightly, and looked questioningly at Gwaine.

"Since just after supper."

"But that was hours ago," Merlin said.

"My point exactly."

"You could have gone looking for me."

"I could have," Gwaine agreed, "but your bed is comfortable."

That was a blatant lie, and Merlin arched his eyebrows at him. Then frowned as he noticed something else.

"Are you – Gwaine, why are you shirtless?"

"Again, it's comfortable. But forget that," Gwaine said. "Merlin, you've been crying."

Merlin raised a hand to his face. It was dry, but that didn't mean there was no evidence of his tears.

"So what if I have?"

"So nothing," Gwaine said, and looked uncomfortable. "I figured you needed some time alone. That's why I didn't follow you. It's just – I thought you might need a friend."

Merlin blew out the softest of sighs. "Gwaine, I... I appreciate it, but I really don't think I'll be great company tonight. You should probably just... go."

Gwaine lowered his gaze and played with the sheets of the bed with one hand. Merlin watched the gesture, puzzled; it wasn't like Gwaine to be hesitant.

"I have something to tell you," Gwaine said finally. "Something I think you need to hear. It's about Lancelot."

Merlin recoiled so sharply he almost backed up right into the door. Gwaine stood up, eyes full of worry, and caught Merlin's wrist.

"Listen, I know you –"

"I don't – I can't – I don't want to talk about him right now, Gwaine," Merlin said, struggling to sound firm. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

"I know," Gwaine said. "I understand, I really do."

"No, you don't," Merlin said, and he was sick of people thinking they understood, or wanting to understand, because they _didn't_ and never could. "Really, Gwaine, you don't. You don't know what Lancelot was to me –"

"I _do_," Gwaine insisted.

Merlin felt a twisted sort of anger rising up in him. "You _can't_. You can't, all right? No one knows. No one will ever know, and I don't know what you hoped to achieve by coming here but I really, really don't need to hear this and if you continue I swear I'll – I'll –" He stopped, knowing that any threat he uttered could be laughed off by Gwaine, one of Camelot's finest fighters.  
But Gwaine's eyes were utterly serious as he looked intently at Merlin. "You'll what?" he asked softly. "Call lightning from above? Find a spell to knock me out? Magically throw me out of the room?"

Merlin reared back again, and this time he did back up into the door, but Gwaine's hand was still firmly wrapped around his wrist and there was no getting away from him.

"I know," Gwaine said. "I've known for ages now – since Arthur's quest in the Perilous Lands. Maybe even before that. That's what I came to see you about. I didn't want you to feel that you were alone. I... I know Lancelot knew, though he never told me."

The words clawed at Merlin's soul, ripping into him mercilessly. He felt stunned, unable to think clearly, to process what Gwaine was telling him.

"You – you never said –"

"I tried to drop a few hints. I hoped you would tell me," Gwaine said. "But you never told anyone, did you?"  
Merlin shook his head. "Lancelot – figured it out," he said faintly. "Well, he saw me using magic, and it was hard to deny. Gwaine..."

"Merlin," Gwaine said. "You were the first friend I made in Camelot, and I know a long time has passed since then, but I still think you're the best friend I've ever had. The best friend I could hope for. I want you to know that."

"Even though –"

"Magic," Gwaine said, "doesn't change anything about who you are. We all have different skills." He looked at Merlin meaningfully. "Different strengths and different weaknesses. And we all serve Arthur as best we can. Your way is – unorthodox, but it seems to be working, doesn't it?" He reached out with his other hand and closed his fingers around Merlin's forearm. "This... skill of yours, Merlin, it's something special."

Merlin leaned into Gwaine's touch, swaying towards him ever so slightly, and rested his forehead against Gwaine's.

"One day," Gwaine said softly, his breath hot on Merlin's lips, "Arthur will know you for who you really are and when that day comes –"

"Don't," Merlin said sharply, drawing back. "Please, don't. You sound like –"

_Like Lancelot_.

Gwaine understood, and for a moment he looked like he'd been slapped. Then he smiled, though bitterly.

"Well, there are worse comparisons."

In truth, there could not be a _better_ comparison, and they both knew it. Merlin knew that Gwaine was not trying to replace Lancelot, because no one could replace Lancelot. But Gwaine was his friend, someone Merlin had liked from the moment he'd laid eyes on him. His words were fuelled by concern only, and Merlin found himself leaning into that concern, taking comfort in it. It almost surprised him, how intensely he needed this. Needed someone who knew and accepted. Needed a friend. Needed Gwaine, gripping his forearms and looking at him and murmuring, _I know. I know what you lost, I know what you are. _

_I know you_.


	5. I'd Die For You

**I think it will be something like an indefinite "In-Progress" fic, because there are so many ways a reveal could happen, and so many ways Arthur could react, that I feel like I could go on forever.**

**Thank you for the reviews! You all left such brilliant, kind comments. I hope you like this chapter just as much; I think it's my favourite so far. I love Arthur's point of view. It ended up a little longer than what I'd anticipated, which is why it took me this long to post it.**

**Also, exams are out of the way. I'm going to have lots of time to write.**

* * *

**Summary: **

"You know I'd die for you, yeah?"

"It certainly looks like we're headed that way," Arthur says dryly.

* * *

**I'd Die For You**

* * *

"It's not so bad," Merlin says. "We've been in this situation before, haven't we? Locked in a dungeon by people who want us dead. This is nothing new."

And of course, that's when the first drop of water falls from the pipe above them, landing right on the back of Arthur's neck and making him yelp and slap a hand to his neck. They both look up, and Arthur steps back. Another drop falls, this time splattering to the floor. It is followed by a third drop. And a fourth.

More water falls, until there is a small puddle on the floor.

The faint trickle of water increases to a steady flow.

"Well," Merlin says, shuffling backwards away from the pipe. "Maybe this part is new."

Arthur sizes up the cell. It's been designed to hold one man, not two. The ceiling is low enough that Percival wouldn't be able to stand up straight in it. It isn't going to take much water – much _time_ – to fill the room. There's an opening, right beside the pipe, a trapdoor of metal bars that can be swung open – that's where they were tossed in from and if they could open it, they could use it to get out. But it's locked, and no man has the strength to break that kind of door. It's the only exit the cell has, though. The room was dug into the ground from above, and around them there is only solid rock.

Arthur sinks down to the floor, ignoring the thin sheet of water that is already spreading across the cell. He sits back on his heels and closes his eyes, trying to think.

"Arthur." Merlin's voice is quiet but unafraid. "It'll be all right."

Arthur half-smiles at that. "I know. We're locked in a cell and promised to death by drowning. What could possibly go wrong?"

"We've been locked in cells before."

"Wasn't quite so _wet_ then, though."

"We'll think of something."

"There's no way we're getting out of this one."

There's a silence, and Arthur cracks an eye open to look at Merlin because really, is he going to give up that easily? Merlin is usually more optimistic than that.

"There might be," Merlin says finally. "If you trust me."

"What does –"

"Trust me," Merlin says again.

Arthur shakes his head, and Merlin falls silent. Arthur can practically _feel_ it in the tension in the air between them that he's thinking hard, and he almost says something sarcastic about Merlin not hurting his head, but really, what's the point?

"Don't bother," he says instead.

The water is swimming around his ankles and feels cold against his hip, but he doesn't stand. He draws up his knees more closely.

"No, really, Merlin. Don't bother." Arthur splashes a little water at him, almost playfully, except this is not a time for play. "I don't think anything short of magic could get us out of here. There's nothing _you_ can do, even if you were at least mildly competent."

Merlin doesn't say anything, doesn't even react to the jibe. Arthur can't blame him.

Why is the water so _cold_?

Merlin is still standing, and Arthur watches in silence as the water rises steadily, lapping at his calves. The movement of the water forces Arthur to his feet. If he had his armour and chain mail, he could have sat there until the water rose above his head; as it is, he has to follow the water until it fills the cell. His clothes are drenched but his teeth aren't chattering; he looks up at the light coming through the bars above their heads and can't help but think that this is a horrible way to die.

When the water has reached their knees, Merlin speaks. "Whatever happens, Arthur, you have to promise me you won't think any differently of me."

The words are familiar, an eerie echo of something Merlin once said to him in Ealdor. Arthur is silent.

"Promise me."

Something in the back of Arthur's mind recognises this as an order and whispers that princes do not take orders from their servants. But this is not just an order; it is a plea. A desperate one. Merlin sounds serious, and his eyes are wide with fear, and it's strange because at this moment, Arthur really cannot think of a single thing that could change the way he thinks of Merlin.

"I promise," Arthur says, and almost laughs because even if he does think differently of Merlin, what does it matter when they're going to die today anyway?

Merlin nods tightly. "Thank you."

His voice sounds strange, like he's about to cry, which is unexpected – because for all that Merlin is a complete girl and cries over things like unicorns and maybe orphaned children, Arthur has never seen him cry over something as stupid and common as impending death for the two of them and he's not sure what he'll do if Merlin starts crying right _now_.

But Merlin doesn't cry. His eyes are completely dry and there's an ugly hardness in his face that Arthur dislikes. It's the look he gets when he watches an execution or when someone insults Arthur. Merlin rarely cries at executions, but his face gets all stony like it is now and Arthur can see it is ripping him apart. He doesn't understand, for the life of him, why Merlin sometimes insists on watching an execution when he can hardly watch a hunt, but on those days he watches as Merlin clenches his fists and his lips go white and hatred burns in his eyes and he _doesn't cry_.

That is how Merlin looks right now, his face blank and cold but his eyes swirling with emotion.

"Arthur..." His voice is low and tight. "I'm sorry."

_What for?_ Arthur wants to ask, but he knows, somehow, that he won't get an answer. Merlin has nothing to be sorry for that he can imagine. Merlin has been by his side always, never betraying him, rushing headlong into suicidal situations just for the love of Arthur – and Arthur knows it. If anything it should be Arthur apologising, apologising for having led them here, for not having protected Merlin.

"You know I'd die for you, yeah?"

"It certainly looks like we're headed that way," Arthur says dryly.

Amusement flickers in Merlin's expression, but in the next instant it is already gone. "I mean it. I... I'm your servant, Arthur. Always."

Arthur wants to say something – something like _You're much more than that to me_ or maybe _Looks like 'always' is going to end a little sooner than expected_ – but the look on Merlin's face stops him. Somehow he can tell he's not meant to challenge this. There have been moments when Arthur felt he and Merlin were worlds apart and could never understand each other, and this is one of them, one of those times where Merlin says one thing and means another thing entirely, but Arthur can't begin to grasp what that thing might be.

"I know," he says instead.

"Don't forget it," Merlin says. "Whatever happens, never forget that."

There is fear in Merlin's eyes, a hot swirling panic that startles Arthur. He knows that Merlin is not afraid of death, and that the thought of death is not what has got Merlin acting so strangely. Because Merlin once drank poison for him and Merlin would follow him into the mouth of hell and Merlin once swore to protect him or die fighting. This is _Merlin_, who is probably afraid of things like spiders and monsters under the bed, but definitely not of dying at Arthur's side. Arthur thinks Merlin's biggest fear is Arthur doing something stupid and getting himself killed, and since that nearly happens every other day Merlin has become pretty brave over the years.

So what is Merlin afraid of now?

"I'm going to get us out of here," Merlin says as the water sloshes uncomfortably high, brushing at their thighs.

Arthur shakes his head slowly. "You can't –"

"I can. And if you want to kill me, if you want to hate me – remember you promised me."

"Merlin, what are you –"

"Shut up, Arthur," Merlin says, closing his eyes. "Just... shut up."

And Arthur does, because there is something completely wrong with this picture, with Merlin talking of hatred and escape in the same breath. As though Arthur could ever hate him, as though –

_Oh_.

It happens like a punch in the gut or a dagger sliding into his stomach. It's that sudden, that unexpected and that _painful_ when Merlin says something in a language Arthur doesn't know and his eyes flash gold and his shackles fall open and sink beneath the rising water.

And then there is silence.

Merlin is looking anywhere but at Arthur, and Arthur cannot see anything but Merlin.

Everything makes sense.

It comes to Arthur in a blur of memories and realisation, scenes flashing before his eyes that take on an entirely different meaning. Merlin has magic, and how could Arthur not have seen it? There is a new meaning to everything Merlin has ever said to him, and Arthur finds himself going through their conversations since the first day, searching for signs, clues that Merlin was hiding _this_ from him. Lying to him. _Magic_.

Maybe if he weren't chained to the wall he would back away now, get as far away from Merlin as possible. But he is and he can't, and time is suspended for a long moment as they look at each other and say nothing, do nothing.

Then Arthur holds his bound hands out wordlessly. Merlin lets out the breath he has been holding in. He raises his hand, palm out, and repeats the words. Arthur knows he flinches when he sees gold wash over blue again, but then the shackles are at his feet and he is rubbing his wrists, rolling his shoulders to ease off the discomfort, and Merlin doesn't mention it.

"Can you stop the water?"

Merlin's eyes flick to the pipe and flash gold again, and the stream of water stops. Arthur tries not to think that it shouldn't be like this, nothing should ever be this easy, and has Merlin always had this power at his fingertips?

"I could _kill_ you," Arthur says, feeling hot fury rise up in him. "I thought we were going to _die_!"

"Well," Merlin says, "I needed time to decide whether I'd rather die by fire or by water."

His words wrap around Arthur's heart painfully and an image leaps to the forefront of his mind – Merlin, tied to a pyre, a fire lit beneath his feet. The joke, if it was one, falls flat between them, and Arthur finds himself staring at Merlin again. _Magic_.

"I wouldn't have let you die," Merlin says quietly, seriously. "And this was the only way. I'm sorry, Arthur, but – we'll talk later, all right? If you want to."

There it is again, that fear in Merlin's eyes, but it's seeping into his voice as well now. And no, it's not fear of death and it never was. Merlin is afraid because Arthur knows the truth.

"We can get out," Merlin says. "I can open the trapdoor, and we can climb out. It's not very high. And then... well, that part we've already done before. We can fight our way out of here."

Arthur nods tightly, because this makes sense. This he can understand, even while he is still shell-shocked by the revelation of Merlin's magic. He can fight, he can escape from a simple cell.

Merlin turns away from Arthur and murmurs something. The trapdoor is unhinged and sent flying back. It _isn't _high, but Merlin is still going to need help. Arthur kneels, and the water sloshes into his eyes and nose and mouth. He ignores it and cups his hands together. Merlin presses his heel into Arthur's hands, and Arthur pushes him upward. He feels the weight in his arms disappear as Merlin swings himself up and out of the cell, and hears the quiet whisper of thanks as he emerges from the water, hair plastered to his forehead. But he refuses Merlin's outstretched hand and climbs out himself, not missing the flash of hurt that crosses Merlin's expression and telling himself he doesn't care.

Of course he cares, in fact he cares tremendously, and only a few minutes ago the thought that Merlin was going to die because of him hurt much more than the one that Arthur himself was also going to die. But he can hardly be relieved that they will both live now, because deeper and sharper than that is the pain of years of lies, and of this, this ultimate betrayal – the truth, not because Merlin trusts him with his secret, but because _he had no choice_. And Arthur knows, he _knows_ that the lies would have gone on for many more years if they hadn't found themselves in this situation.

_Liar_.

_"You couldn't keep a secret if your life depended on it,"_ Arthur remembers saying once, and he can practically taste the irony in the words now. He remembers the pained look in his servant's eyes that day and knows Merlin has suffered from his secret. A sorcerer in Camelot, a sorcerer the Prince's own manservant – how could he not suffer? And there are other things Arthur has said, things that must have cut Merlin to the quick. _"All magic is evil."_  
Arthur realises, now, that all the executions Merlin attended were those of sorcerers. He tastes something bitter in the back of his throat and forces the thoughts and the memories away, because – now is not the time.

* * *

The guards posted in the corridor fall within seconds, and Arthur nicks a sword off one of them. The balance of it is slightly off, but the blade is strong and Arthur instantly feels better, his mind clearer now that he is gripping the hilt of a sword. He swings it around experimentally, and does not miss the fear that shadows Merlin's eyes for a moment, or the way his manservant goes completely still. _Gods_. Does Merlin really think that after all these years, Arthur _could_?

They fall into their usual, now ridiculous pattern, with Arthur leading and Merlin following. Arthur is grateful when Merlin's eyes remain blue and not a word passes his lips throughout. Like this, they can pretend that nothing has changed. It is Arthur who knocks down their opponents while Merlin hovers and shadows him, Arthur who leads the offensive, Arthur who is the first to step outside in the fresh air. Arthur who does not even look up at the clear blue sky before surging forward, heading for the stables. Arthur who does not look back, either, to see whether Merlin is following.  
Merlin always follows.

He hears Merlin fumbling with the saddle girth before he mounts, and the slight groan of leather as Merlin heaves himself up into the saddle. He can't bring himself to look. He knows Merlin is _there_, and he doesn't want to risk seeing that helplessness, that _fear_ in his expression again.

_"You know I'd die for you, yeah?"_

The words echo in Arthur's head, desperate and fearful and painfully honest, as they ride out, heading for the thick forest ahead as quickly as they can. This should be the easy part, Arthur knows; he is good enough at tracking that he can choose the paths which will make them most difficult to follow. But it's also the hardest part since Merlin showed him his magic, because there is no fighting involved, nothing to divert Arthur's attention from the heavy thud of hooves behind him that make him all too aware of Merlin's presence close at his heels.

Merlin doesn't say anything, offer any excuse or try to defend himself. _We'll talk later_, he said. _If you want to._

It's not until they've gone far into the forest and have slowed the horses down, that Arthur thinks he does want to, and can.

"Why are you still here?"

"Still – where?" Merlin asks, like he genuinely doesn't understand what Arthur means.

"Here," Arthur says again, still not looking back at Merlin. "With me."

"Where else would I be?"

"Anywhere," Arthur says. "Anywhere but Camelot, and with anyone but its prince."

Merlin is silent for exactly three of Arthur's heartbeats. "I couldn't. I don't want to serve anyone else."

"Serve –" Arthur chokes off a laugh. "Merlin, in some kingdoms you wouldn't even have to be a servant."

"Some kingdoms aren't yours," Merlin says, as though that's all the explanation in the world.

"Why me?" Arthur asks.

There's another pause.

"I don't know where to start." There's a familiar lilt in Merlin's voice and Arthur can picture the fond, shy smile on his lips even without turning around. "Lots of reasons. You're – everything this land needs. It's my destiny to help you become more than anyone else has ever been."

There's a quiet, unassuming certainty in his tone that stuns Arthur. He can tell there's a tale behind this, behind this _destiny_ that Merlin speaks of, but he's not sure he wants to ask.

"Why did you never tell me?" is the question that comes out instead. His voice sounds broken, and not accusing the way he intended it to.

"You would have had me burnt."

"You don't really believe that," Arthur says, because Merlin knows him.

"No," Merlin says quietly. "I don't."

Arthur wouldn't execute Merlin for having magic and using it, time and time again, to protect him. Arthur can't even bring himself to _care_ about the magic. He knows Merlin would never use it against him. The lies, the astonishing number of _lies_ that Merlin has told him over the years are what overwhelm him. The fact that Merlin didn't trust him with this.

Merlin _knows_ Arthur. He's seen him in his most unguarded moments. He's seen him be weak, he's seen him hesitate, he's seen him lonely. Merlin is the one person with whom Arthur has never pretended to be anything else than what he is. But Arthur, quite obviously, doesn't know Merlin and never did. It's not just the magic; it's everything he's _done_ with it. Saving Arthur, saving Camelot – because now Arthur can see what's been right in front of his eyes for years. All those trials and triumphs, everything Merlin sacrificed for him – and Arthur never knew. Merlin has endured his teasing, his criticism, his mocking, all the while knowing that _he_ was the one saving Arthur's life again and again. How much of their friendship has been built on lies? How much more to Merlin is there that Arthur never knew?

It hurts that Merlin never bothered to tell him. Never thought he should say the truth, never thought that maybe it would be easier for them both. That maybe it would be _fair_, that maybe Arthur should have had a say in what he was doing for Camelot, that maybe he shouldn't have been alone. That maybe Arthur should have been there for Merlin, the way Merlin has always been there for him.

Most of all, it hurts that Merlin never thought these were things Arthur would have _wanted_ to do.

"At first," Merlin says, "when it was still – easy, I wanted to tell you. I thought I was just waiting for the right moment. But there was never really a right moment, was there? And, later, I... I couldn't do it. I couldn't face you, knowing I'd lied to you. I couldn't risk losing you. It's not just the magic – it was never just the magic – but there are things, Arthur, that I thought I'd never be able to explain away."

"And you thought I would – what? Send you away?"

"No. No, of course not. You couldn't keep me away from Camelot – from _you_ – if you tried. I was never just your servant. I was your friend, and I couldn't bear the thought of seeing you every day and knowing that we'd lost something, that you'd never trust me again."

"The way you never trusted me, you mean."

There's a sharp intake of breath behind Arthur, like that hurts. But Merlin doesn't deny the truth of the statement.

"Was I wrong?" he asks instead. "Should I have told you years ago, before you even liked me?"

And he's right, of course. That wasn't an option, because he _would_ have been executed back then. And if he had chosen to speak out after they'd become friends – it would have been the same betrayal as it is now.

"You waited _years_," Arthur says, because he still needs to find a reason to blame Merlin, because the alternative is so much worse. "You must have had countless opportunities – every time I told you I trusted you and valued your opinion, and –"

"That actually doesn't happen very often," Merlin cuts in.

Shit, that hurts.

What's worse is that it's true. Most of their relationship is based on things that go unsaid, compliments and marks of affection hidden beneath mockery and insults. Most of the time, it works for them, but it certainly isn't the best backdrop for this type of revelation.

Does that make it Arthur's fault?

"Arthur?" Merlin says, and the name is a question all on its own, wary and hopeful at the same time.

Arthur gestures vaguely with one hand, a movement that could be interpreted in a dozen different ways. Merlin immediately understands the correct interpretation, and within moments his horse catches up with Arthur's. Their knees knock together as they move forward, and it feels strangely comforting.

"I wish you could have told me," Arthur says, looking straight ahead.

"So do I."

Merlin sounds like he means it, and Arthur feels it again – that sharp twinge of pain in his chest that feels a lot like guilt, like he never really gave Merlin the opportunity to come out with the truth, or any reason to trust him.

"You've had it – since before you were my servant?"

"Since forever," Merlin says. "I was born with it."

"What does it feel like?" Arthur asks, and though he doesn't say what _it_ is, they both know.

Merlin takes a moment to think, as though he realises what exactly Arthur is asking, and what it represents. Arthur turns his head to watch him.

"I've never not had it," Merlin says. "I can't imagine it just not _being there_, inside me." He curls his fingers. "Everywhere. I can just feel it, a sort of... _humming_." He looks up quickly, as though wondering whether Arthur will laugh.

(He doesn't.)

"Even when I'm not using it," Merlin says. "Or, well – especially when I'm not using it. It wants to be free. Sometimes... Sometimes it's _so_ hard not to use it. It's like fighting a reflex, like trying not to blink. Living in Camelot, it's like – like trying to breathe underwater."

"Like suicide," Arthur says, and Merlin inclines his head.

"Like that. Exactly like that. And when I do use it, it's – not _worse_, exactly, but it's stronger. It's just... more. Like getting a taste of freedom and seeing the sun, and then being locked up again."

"Do you – use it often?" Arthur asks, and he's not thinking about Morgana and his knights and protection, he's thinking about Merlin when he's alone and in his room and –

"Not to polish your armour, if that's what you're asking," Merlin says with a small smile that quickly fades. "Not nearly often enough, but – fairly often, yes. Even if just to light a candle. But –" He waves his hand in a senseless gesture. "Camelot. It's not safe. Even when I think I'm alone, I have to be careful because I might not be."

Arthur is quiet for a long moment. This is a decision for another day, a day when he's sitting on his throne and has discussed it in depth with the council. Still, the words, when he says them, feel final, like his entire life has been building up to this moment. Is this what destiny feels like?

"That can change," Arthur says quietly, and it sounds like a promise. "One day, you can be safe."

Merlin smiles, and it's a heartwarming sight. "Maybe one day."

It's not like Arthur's stance regarding magic has changed. It's more like his entire world has shifted, and everything is slotting into place in a different way. This world makes more sense, somehow. And, vaguely, Arthur thinks that it may, one day, prove to be a better world.

* * *

A few hours before they reach the citadel, Arthur turns to Merlin and says, "I could tell them you were killed by the bandits."

"You could," Merlin agrees, but his eyes say, _Could you really?_

"You should leave."

"Should I?" Merlin asks, and he means, _Do you want me to?_

There are a hundred things that need to be said, but Merlin already knows all of them, and Arthur knows exactly how he would reply, knows that nothing he can say will drive Merlin away from him. So that's the end of that conversation.

And somehow, it's also only the beginning.


	6. By My Side, Always

**Thank you for all the comments, and to everyone who favorited and is now following the fic. I was so happy you enjoyed the last chapter because as I said, I loved writing it. **

**In this chapter there's a little bit of Merthur sweetness near the end, because I couldn't help myself.**

* * *

**Summary: **When Arthur asks for Merlin's advice regarding magic, Merlin refuses to give it.

* * *

**By My Side, Always**

* * *

"I've been thinking," Arthur said, which, really was a mistake. The opportunity was too blatant for Merlin not to take advantage.

"You know that's not good for you, sire. You might hurt yourself."

"Oh for the love of – _Merlin_," Arthur said, exasperated, and there was none of the usual fondness in his voice. "Is there nothing you take seriously?"

"All right, all _right_." Merlin held his hands up placatingly, not wanting the goblet Arthur was currently holding to end up thrown at him. "What is it?"

"I've been thinking," Arthur said, glaring at him as though daring him to retort (Merlin bit his tongue), "about magic."

Merlin's grin faded, and he felt himself tense up. If Arthur had been looking for the one subject about which Merlin was unwilling to joke, he had found it.

"You have?"

Arthur looked at him strangely, as though still half-expecting a teasing remark. "Yes," he said. "I've just realised I've never really asked you how you felt about magic."

"How I – felt?" Merlin repeated, the words tasting strange and unfamiliar on his tongue. "About magic?"

"Yes, Merlin," Arthur said, as though he thought Merlin was particularly dimwitted. "Your thoughts, your opinion, your – I don't know, your advice. Go on. Illuminate me with one of your rare flashes of completely uncharacteristic wisdom."

"My advice," Merlin repeated dumbly. "You want _my_ advice. About _magic_."

Arthur probably thought he was being extremely slow on the uptake, but in truth the words were running in circles around Merlin's head. His heart was thudding madly in his chest, the beat of it suddenly far too quick and far too loud. It felt as if he had been waiting for this moment for years, except really he hadn't. He had long since abandoned the dream that one day Arthur might _accept_ magic.

And here was Arthur, dangling his dashed hopes in front of him again, and Merlin thought he couldn't bear it if he messed this up.

"_Yes_," Arthur said again. "I never asked, and you never – I don't think I've ever heard you say anything bad about magic. And you're not from Camelot."

"Why are you asking me this?" Merlin asked. "Why does it matter? Your laws –"

"Laws can be changed," Arthur said simply.

Merlin stopped breathing for several moments. His heart swelled in his chest with pride and hope, and he thought – _Yes. This is it_. That Arthur was even _considering_ – but he breathed in again, and his hope fell within the same moment. Because this was wrong. It wasn't meant to be like this. Arthur had to make the decision on his own; Merlin didn't have the right to sway him one way or the other when he had been lying to him about magic for years.

"Why would you change everything your father built?" Merlin asked. "Why allow magic back into Camelot? I don't understand."

Arthur glanced down at the goblet in his hand. It was empty, but his hold around it was tight and sure. He was sitting at his desk, with several unwrapped rolls of parchment in front of him.

"I've been thinking," he said a third time, and Merlin really had to struggle not to comment, because Arthur looked genuinely contemplative. "It's nothing official yet. I just thought I might like a second opinion. I realise our biggest threat at the moment is magic, what with Morgana, –" his jaw clenched at the name – "but for some reason I keep thinking of the druids. I honestly believe they're a peaceful people. I think I've had the occasion to witness it with my own eyes several times. I promised the druid boy who possessed Elyan last week that I would end the persecution against his people, and yet I know most of them have magic, or some sort of soothsaying ability. So I wonder – do you think all magic is evil, Merlin?"

Merlin breathed in, then out. His throat felt constricted, and there was already a stinging behind his eyes when he decided what to say. It was the only right thing to say. The only fair thing.

"I think... I think this is one thing with which I can't help you."

"What? Why?" Arthur asked, frowning. "Surely you have an opinion –"

"It's not for me to say," Merlin said, "what should be legal or not in Camelot."

"I want your opinion, Merlin."

"Well I'm not giving it," Merlin snapped, because it was hard enough already without Arthur insisting like this.

Arthur looked stunned, and maybe a little betrayed. "At least tell me what you _think_," he said, and it was almost a plea. "It's a simple enough question, Merlin. Yes or no. Is all magic –"

"It's not my place to say," Merlin cut in immediately, thinking he couldn't bear to hear the question again. "I'm just a servant."

"When has that ever stopped you?" Arthur shook his head exasperatedly. "If you're a servant, then as your king, I _order_ you to answer me."

"Since when has advising you been a part of my duties? I'm not required to give you any advice. In fact, I'm sure most of your nobles would agree that I _shouldn't_."

Arthur looked at him as though he were a complete stranger, and Merlin felt a thousand times the liar he knew he was.

"If that's all, sire," he said, looking away, "I'll leave now."

"I won't keep you," Arthur said tightly.

* * *

Neither of them brought up the subject again for weeks, but Merlin felt that something had changed in the dynamics of their relationship. Arthur rarely asked for his presence in the evenings, and he started looking strained. The thoughtful expression became a near-constant on his face. Occasionally Merlin would catch Arthur looking at him speculatively, and it always sent an apprehensive shiver up his spine. Arthur wasn't stupid; he knew something was up.  
It wasn't until three weeks after their conversation that Arthur said, right in the middle of his breakfast:

"I've decided to lift the ban on magic."

Merlin sat down heavily in the chair across from Arthur. "That's... interesting."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Do you think it's a bad idea?"

"What I think doesn't matter," Merlin said.

"For God's sake, Merlin, why do you have to choose now of all times to develop a sense of discretion? It matters to me. I _want_ to know what you think."

And Merlin wanted so much to tell him, he really did. He was itching to say the words that would reassure Arthur, but he couldn't. Because it would all be lies unless he also said, _I have magic, that's how I know it can be used for good_, and he couldn't say that, for the same reasons that he had never been able to. The problem had never been that Arthur hated magic. It was that Merlin had lied, and Arthur despised liars. Liars had no honour, no pride, no courage.

"I think," Merlin said, "that it's going to be very difficult to convince the council."

Arthur brought his fist down upon the table, and Merlin didn't even flinch. He'd been expecting it; he knew Arthur too well.

"Will you just give me a straight answer?"

"Just do what your heart tells you is right," Merlin said, and it wasn't a straight answer, but it was the best he could do.

* * *

He was right, of course. The council was very difficult to convince. And after that was done, there were all the practical aspects to consider and discuss. How exactly would magic be regulated, who would do it, what would be the sanctions for unlawful use? It took four months before magic was officially lawful in Camelot once more, and each day was a beautiful one for Merlin, who saw it all slowly unfold before his own eyes as he attended Arthur during council. He itched to contribute something when he saw Arthur's lords faced with a particularly prickly problem, but he couldn't. Instead he kept his eyes lowered and tried not to grin madly when Arthur overruled their objections. In the end, Arthur lifted the ban on magic almost single-handedly, with a determination that stunned the entire kingdom.

A celebration was held. Hundreds of people gathered in the castle courtyard, with Arthur presiding over them all from the balcony. He looked glorious in his shining armour (freshly polished by Merlin), his red cloak, and the crown upon his head. His speech (carefully prepared not by Merlin, as Arthur seemed to think he wanted nothing to do with the whole magic business) was clear, and amazing, and heart-wrenching for Merlin. The people seemed not to know how to react at first, but a lone woman started the cheer and was soon tentatively joined by most of the others, and Arthur seemed to think it was enough.

_"It will be a big change for them,"_ he had said the previous night to Merlin. _"But I think some still remember the time when magic was legal. Many of them knew Gaius before the ban, and that he used magic to heal."_

When an official unrolled the parchment where the new law had been written down and began to read aloud, the tears that had been pricking at Merlin's eyes ever since Arthur began to speak flowed over and ran down his cheeks. He wiped at them hurriedly, feeling stupid and conspicuous; but Arthur noticed, of course he did. Merlin caught him staring worriedly and saw the question in his eyes: _Have I made the wrong decision? Would you have done otherwise?_ He tried to give him a reassuring smile, but that Arthur cared so much about Merlin's opinion just made it worse, and the smile came out more like a shaky grimace.

It was over. Merlin would have to tell Arthur soon, or he would never do it.

* * *

Merlin's was the first magic the court of Camelot witnessed after the repeal of the ban.

He had thought for days how he would go about telling Arthur, had decided precisely which words he would use, but whenever Arthur looked at him with _that_ look and asked him if he was all right, the words would stick in his throat and he would offer a lie that would fail to convince Arthur, and things would shatter between them just that little bit more. It became clear that the right words weren't the right words at all, and that Merlin couldn't _say_ it. He wasn't sure what held him back, but his throat closed up every time he even thought about it.  
So in the end, he didn't say it. He did it.

He would probably never know what decided him, but doing it was easier than he'd imagined. His magic was a part of him, and _not_ using it was what was hard most of the time. As a child, he'd always done magic instinctively. Now that his mind knew that he wouldn't be risking his life by using it it was tempting to just go around catching falling objects with his magic. One thought kept him back, though. _Arthur_.

It wasn't _the king, the law, the executioner_ anymore. But still, it all came back to Arthur. Arthur who had to know, Arthur who had long since earnt the _right_ to know. Arthur whom Merlin made sure was there the very first time he used magic in public.

It was at a small feast held by the king in honour of his newest batch of knights, which to Merlin's approval was composed of nearly as many commoners as nobles, that Merlin found his opportunity. Gwaine got stupendously drunk in that Gwaine way of his, which was to say he didn't sway or stagger but he grew louder and more boisterous, and at one point he very unashamedly declared that the whole thing was boring and that really, you'd think the king would have the means to provide more entertainment for his knights than this.

Merlin saw Arthur's jaw twitch, and the king leaned over to him and said quietly, "Do you think you could bring him back to his room? He's going to have to sleep off a very interesting hangover tomorrow."

"I have another idea," Merlin said. "I could probably entertain your knights."

Arthur arched an eyebrow at that, but as always the temptation of seeing Merlin make a complete fool of himself was stronger than anything else, and he gave a small nod.

"Go on, then," he said, grinning. He raised his voice. "Sir Gwaine, I heard your request and decided to grant it. This is what I offer you for entertainment. Behold... Merlin!"

Most of the knights grinned right back, and Gwaine outright guffawed. Merlin looked at them hesitantly, scanning each of their expressions, singling out the ones who mattered the most – Lancelot, Leon, Percival, Elyan, Gwaine. Lancelot's smile was small but encouraging; he had probably already guessed where this was going. The others had no idea. Merlin tried not to look at them as he moved back away from Arthur, stopping when he was at a comfortable distance from the table so that everyone could see.

In some part of his mind, he had already decided how this was going to go. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, two dozen coloured spheres of light danced in front of him, suffusing the room with a soft, multi-coloured glow. One of them headed straight for Gwaine, who stared at it in amazement before reaching out to take it gently in hand. The complete absence of fear in his expression warmed Merlin's heart.

"It's real," his friend said wonderingly, turning the red ball over in his hand. "You can _make_ these?"

And that was Gwaine. Merlin almost laughed with relief, because Gwaine was one of his closest friends among the knights. He supposed a part of him had always known that this was how Gwaine would react, really. Gwaine, the person who had his own secrets for his own reasons, secrets he had entrusted to Merlin while hardly knowing him. The person who had once told him, _It's what's inside that counts _and _You're the best friend I've ever had_ and even _You're the only friend I've got_.

"I can also call a dragon," Merlin offered with a faint smile. "If you want more 'entertainment,' Gwaine."

It was a the wrong thing to say, though, because though Merlin had meant it as a joke, Gwaine immediately sat up with a sudden clarity in his eyes that suggested he was less drunk than he seemed. "A dragon?" he repeated. "I've always wanted to meet one of those."

Leon groaned from beside him, and muttered something that sounded very much like _Lay off the drink, you idiot_. Merlin looked at him and was both amused and relieved to see that his expression was one of disgust, and that he looked a lot more focused on Gwaine than on the revelation that Merlin had magic. Merlin quickly scanned the rest of the knights' faces, and saw no condemnation there, either.

His heart was in his throat when his eyes searched for Arthur, found him, and settled there.

The goblet Arthur had been drinking from fell to the floor, spilling red wine over the stone floor. His face was white with shock, his mouth slightly open. He stood up and locked gazes with Merlin, and Merlin could read nothing in his expression beyond the surprise. No anger, no condemnation. Just complete shock, as though Arthur had never imagined that there could be anything more to Merlin than what he seemed. As though he had never once thought Merlin was capable of lying to him about something this monumental. Merlin swallowed, and stepped forward, one hand outstretched and trembling.

Arthur raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

"Don't –" he began, then cast a swift glance around the room and stopped.

He walked out of the room without a word of explanation or apology to his knights, and Merlin watched him leave, feeling as though Arthur had just slapped him. Lancelot was out of his chair and at Merlin's side within moments.

"Do you want me to follow him? I can talk to him –"

"No. This is between Arthur and me," Merlin interrupted him. "I'll go after him."

Around them, a murmur was rising up among the knights.

"You mean Arthur didn't _know_?" Merlin heard Gwaine ask as he left the room, and flinched at the surprise in his tone, as though it were obvious that Merlin should have told Arthur years ago.

* * *

He found Arthur in his rooms, staring out the window at the clear night sky. The sword with which he had knighted the newcomers lay on the floor in the middle of the room. Merlin stopped in the doorway, unsure of how to break the thick silence that lay between them. This was the moment he had never been able to face – the betrayal, the hurt, the questioning. He had imagined it all a thousand times, but nothing could compare to the harsh reality of the moment.

"Tell me," Arthur said, cutting through the silence with a voice that was almost fragile, "that I've drunk too much. That I didn't see what I thought I saw. That it was someone else – anyone else. _Tell me_, Merlin."

Merlin looked at the back of Arthur's head and almost wished he could give his king what he wanted. But –

"I can't. It would be a lie."

"Yes," Arthur said slowly, "yes, well, you do seem to be rather skilled at telling lies. You said you were also a dragonlord, didn't you?"

Merlin winced. "Arthur –"

Arthur turned around, and whatever Merlin had been about to stay stuck in his throat. Arthur's expression was unlike any other Merlin had ever seen on him – he looked as though someone had destroyed all his hopes and joys in a single moment.

"There is one person," Arthur said, his eyes not hard and unforgiving like Merlin had thought they would be, but instead hurt and confused, "who has been by my side always. Someone who will never leave and would do anything for me – someone who is willing to die for me. Someone whom I trust with my life, with _everything_... and yet this person has lied to me for years, and for the life of me I can't understand _why_."

Merlin had to force out his next words past the tightness in his throat. "I never wanted to hurt you. Just –"

"How long?" Arthur asked. "How long have you been using sorcery?"

"Since birth, practically," Merlin said.

Arthur sucked in a breath. "You've been lying since the day we met."

"I'm sorry," Merlin said quietly, because there was nothing else he could say.

"Did I ever really know you?"

Merlin was silent. Arthur held his gaze a moment longer, then let out something that resembled a sigh and dipped his head, looking at the floor.

"Merlin, tell me this: why must I be betrayed by every person I love?" he asked softly. "What crime have I committed, what wrong have I done that I am condemned to this?"

"Arthur –" Merlin said, desperate to take the pained strain out of Arthur's voice, but his mind was reeling, and his thought process had completely stopped at the word _love_. He couldn't say anything intelligible.

"Damn you, Merlin," Arthur said, and he sounded perilously close to tears – except that Arthur never cried. "Damn you. After Morgana, you –"

"I'm not," Merlin said, desperately, because he couldn't let Arthur believe _that_. "I wouldn't, Arthur, you know I wouldn't –"

"I thought I did," Arthur said. "I thought I knew you."

"Arthur," Merlin said, and maybe the word _love_ was what gave him the courage to move forward and close the distance between them. "The only thing you need to know about me is that I'll serve you until I die. That I would never betray you. That my magic is yours as much as it is mine, just as my life belongs to you. Every part of me is yours." _My magic, my life, my heart_.

Arthur looked up, seeming to hear Merlin's unspoken words. They stood staring at each other, close enough to touch – both wanting to reach out, but unwilling to risk it. Merlin could put a name on the thick tension in the air between them, now. _Desire_.

"The ban," Arthur said roughly. "Would you have –"

"It's everything I've ever wanted for Camelot," Merlin said. "That you made the decision on your own is beyond amazing."

Arthur's gaze was still intent, but there was a new softness in his eyes and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly in a half-smile. "That's why you wouldn't tell me what you wanted? You wanted to see whether I could do it by myself?"

"I knew you could," Merlin said. "That's not why I did it. I thought I didn't have the right to manipulate you like that. Not when you didn't know the facts."

"And now I do," Arthur said. "Why? Did you suddenly think I deserved to know?"

"You always deserved to know."

There was a small silence, but not as heavy as the previous one. It was full of something new, something furtive yet intense. Merlin thought the moment might slip away if he didn't seize it, so he boldly raised a hand and touched his fingers lightly to Arthur's cheek. Arthur's sharp intake of breath almost made him bring his hand back down again, but then Arthur's warm hand was covering his own and cradling it gently and the moment didn't slip away, it lingered and stretched out into eternity.

"What happens now?" Arthur asked softly, after what felt like a very long time.

"Whatever you want," Merlin said, and meant it.

Now, together, they could have the world.


	7. Smile and Pretend

**Let us all pretend that Gwen does not exist for the purposes of Merthur. Or, you know, that her exile lasted a lot longer than it actually did.**

**I may like this one even better than the last two, possibly because of the amount of Merthur. I tried to go for a little bit of light angst on Arthur's side, but you'll have to tell me if that worked.**

* * *

**Summary: **He wanted Merlin to tell him.

* * *

**Smile and Pretend**

* * *

There were many things Arthur had never intended to do regarding Merlin. He had never intended to have him as a servant, for one. He had never intended to be friends with him, let alone anything more. And he had certainly never intended to eavesdrop on a conversation Merlin was having with one of his knights, but like everything else, it just happened. And like everything else, it left Arthur torn between wishing it had never happened, and understanding that, really, it had been inevitable.

This was how it happened: he was looking for Merlin, because the idiot was only ever conveniently nearby if Arthur was in mortal danger. Elyan redirected him to the armoury, saying that he'd spotted him going that way, and Arthur was about to push the door open and yell a little when Gwaine's voice rose from behind the door. His tone was so utterly serious that it gave Arthur pause. (Gwaine was rarely completely serious.)

"You know I wouldn't judge you."

"I know," came Merlin's soft reply. "But you have to promise not to tell anyone."

"You mean no one knows? Not even Arthur?"

Arthur froze at the mention of his name, his hand dropping to his side.

"Not even Arthur," Merlin confirmed. "He'd kill me if he knew."

Arthur knew that Merlin was only half-serious, and that no one in entire citadel believed that Arthur could ever harm Merlin. But still it hurt that Merlin was able to joke about something like this, and that hurt was the reason that Arthur didn't simply leave, or make his presence known. Instead he stayed and listened. A part of him kept whispering that it was wrong, but another, bigger part of him told him that this was the opportunity to understand what shadowed Merlin's eyes sometimes when he looked at Arthur, what he'd been hiding even when he'd given over every other part of himself to Arthur.

"Come on, then," Gwaine said. "I told you my secret ages ago, it's only fair."

Merlin gave a soft, quiet laugh. "That's true."

He lowered his voice and said something else, quickly, in a low whisper. Arthur heard a gasp, and the sound of metal crashing against metal as Gwaine seemed to back up suddenly into a suit of armour.

"Damn it," Gwaine said in a harsh whisper. "Merlin, are you _insane_? Arthur would –"

"I _know_," Merlin said, and he sounded – strangled, maybe. Desperate. "Don't you think I _know_? But this isn't about Arthur. It's about you."

"About _me_?" Gwaine repeated. "You have to know it doesn't matter to me."

"I knew you wouldn't betray me," Merlin said. "I was sure of that, at least. I just didn't know how you would really feel about it."

"How I'd _feel_? Merlin, this is _great_." There was genuine admiration in Gwaine's tone, softened by mirth. "How long have you been hiding this? Did you have it even when we first met?"

"Yes," Merlin said. "And long before that."

Arthur felt something twist in his gut, because it was obvious that Merlin had revealed a great secret, and though Arthur rationally couldn't know what it was, a part of him already guessed. He felt sick and slightly dizzy, and he told himself that it was the betrayal that did it – the fact that Merlin had entrusted this to Gwaine, but not to the man he slept with at night.

"This is amazing," Gwaine said. "What else can you do with it?"

Merlin laughed again; the sound of it, so light and free, sent a dagger into Arthur's heart. "I'm not showing you _now_. It would take ages."

"Can you control the weather?" Gwaine asked. "Or conjure animals, or –"

"Shh!" Merlin said, his voice turned sharp with worry. "Someone could hear you."

"Is there a spell that can stop people from overhearing a conversation?" Gwaine asked immediately, with childish curiosity, and again Merlin laughed.

"I'll have to look it up," he said, and that, there, was the betrayal Arthur had been anticipating.

It stung worse than he had imagined. The casual avowal of magic, and to Gwaine of all people, Gwaine who couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life – it slammed into Arthur and left him reeling, the breath knocked out of his lungs. Why would Merlin tell Gwaine, who had only ever been a friend to him, and not Arthur? Was the trust between them that fragile?

Gwaine seemed to be thinking along the same lines; again he sounded uncharacteristically serious when he asked, "What about Arthur?"

Merlin said something unintelligible. Arthur pressed himself firmly against the door to catch Gwaine's next words, spoken softly.

"You mean he really doesn't know?"

"He can't ever know," Merlin said, louder this time, and there was a firm assurance in his tone that brooked no argument. "Where magic is concerned, he is his father's son. I can never tell him."

Something in Arthur's heart cracked, because there was his answer. Yes, the trust between them was _exactly_ that fragile, that nonexistent. He had held Merlin in his arms, had had him in his bed, had shared every concern he'd ever had with him, but evidently that wasn't enough. _He is his father's son._ Was that all he ever had been in Merlin's eyes, all he ever would be?

"He cares about you," Gwaine said.

Arthur winced. Gods, he knew they were being obvious, but he had thought most of his knights would accept it for the sort of casual dalliance that young nobles were sometimes known to have, not – not _He cares about you_ spoken like _He loves you_.

"I don't think just caring is enough to override everything he's ever believed about magic," Merlin said. "We would never even have become friends if he knew."

That, then, was how Merlin summarised their relationship. _Friends_, and _not enough_. Not enough to be worth the truth, not enough to earn Merlin's trust. Arthur wanted to burst through the door and punch Merlin, or maybe Gwaine, except Merlin was so slender and useless and Gwaine so reactive and strong that neither of those options sounded like a good idea. He wanted to ask Merlin if he thought that all they were was 'friends,' and how could it not be 'enough' when he had given Merlin more than he had ever given anyone else?

"I won't say anything," Gwaine promised, still with that strange note of seriousness in his tone. "Not a word to anyone, Merlin, I swear."

"I know," Merlin said quietly. "Thank you."

Arthur tried not to recognise the warmth and affection in Gwaine's voice when his knight replied, "No, Merlin. Thank _you_."

He pretended not to hear the shuffle on the other side of the door as (he knew, he just knew) Merlin walked into Gwaine's embrace.

And when he next saw Merlin, serving him his noon meal, he pretended that nothing had changed between them.

* * *

Of course it was pointless. A lot had changed, so suddenly and completely that Arthur couldn't completely conceal it. He was able to pick out the change in Merlin as well, though it was a different kind of change. His step was lighter, his smile easier. There was something freed in his expression, and a new sort of fondness when he looked at Gwaine that Arthur was intensely jealous of. His knight and his manservant could often be found staying behind after training, exchanging a few quiet words and laughing. They were closer now, their bond strengthened by the sharing of secrets. Arthur tried not to resent Gwaine for it, but he couldn't help but resent Merlin, who thought he could have this bond with his friend but not his king, not his lover.

_"We would never even have become friends if he knew."_ Merlin had sounded painfully honest, and Arthur knew he truly believed what he had said was true.

What made it ten times worse was that he wasn't wrong.

If Arthur had known it would hurt so much to give his heart to someone, he would never have let Merlin become anything more than a servant. He could barely remember how it had happened, now. There had never been a precise moment when Merlin became his friend, when his irreverent mocking and goofy grin became things Arthur looked forward to every day. It had been a slow progression, from hating each other to tolerating each other to being willing to risk their lives for each other to – to trusting each other, Arthur had thought. Maybe it had happened around Ealdor. Riding to defend a village that had nothing to do with Camelot was something Arthur wouldn't have done for a stranger, or for just any servant. Or maybe it had happened earlier, and Arthur hadn't seen it at the time. Maybe it had just been waking up every morning to Merlin's smile.

On the other hand, he remembered very clearly the moment he and Merlin had become more than friends. It had started out as friendly teasing, the way it often did, but as always there was an undercurrent of something else in Merlin's words. It had been the day following the end of Elyan's possession by the druid boy, and for some reason the teasing got to Arthur in a way it usually didn't. Maybe because the words rang true, and Arthur hated to be reminded of things like emotions and, worse, tears. Somehow it had ended with Merlin provocatively suggesting a hug, and Arthur had tackled him to the ground and held him there, pinning him to the floor with his body weight. Merlin had laughed, all the mocking gone out of his expression, and wriggled helplessly beneath him.

"This wasn't quite what I had in mind," Merlin had managed to say, and Arthur had laughed delightedly and pressed him further into the ground.

And then – Arthur wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but he had looked down, and Merlin had looked up, and a warm flush had crept up Arthur's neck and somehow it had been the most natural thing in the world to lean in and touch his lips to Merlin's.

There had been something about Merlin's expression, a soft open warmth and hope, that Arthur now realised was due at least in part to what he had promised the previous night: _From this day forth, the Druid people will be treated with the respect they deserve._ At the time, he had interpreted it differently.

That night, Merlin had been soft and pliant underneath him, yielding in all the right ways but still putting up enough of a good-natured fight that Arthur _knew_ – it couldn't be like this with anyone but Merlin. Only Merlin could so beautifully combine devotion and insolence.

Their relationship was understated, made up of looks and glances that spoke volumes, full of touches that lingered for just a second too long, and concealed by gentle insults and teasing. Still, Arthur knew he had never experienced anything stronger or truer in his life, and it was a reflection of how much he cared that since the eavesdropping incident it had never once crossed his mind to fear Merlin, or to have him arrested. The betrayal was worse than treason and ran deeper than simply the law. It was the betrayal of trust, of love that seared painfully through Arthur.  
Just because he had never spoken the words aloud, it didn't make his feelings any less true – and apparently Gwaine knew that, even if Merlin didn't.

* * *

He wanted Merlin to tell him.

He wasn't sure when he realised it, but he found himself continuously baiting Merlin, drawing him into the sort of conversation that lent itself to the sharing of secrets. He didn't know whether he was trying to guilt Merlin into telling the truth, or just prove to himself that Merlin _did_ trust him, but either way, over the next few days he provided a half-dozen golden occasions for Merlin to just _say it_.

"I trust you more than I've ever trusted anyone," he said one lazy morning in bed, running his fingers through Merlin's hair.

It was easy to say the words, because they were true. He had never been one to be open about his feelings, but with Merlin things were never complicated. The words fell from his lips naturally, and Arthur watched Merlin, waiting.

"I know," Merlin said, each word like a twist of the knife. "I trust you, too."

* * *

After that, it became even more difficult. Whenever Arthur looked at Merlin, he saw the lies. He began to question every smile, every laugh, and wondered – was Merlin as good at faking his emotions as he was at lying? Doubt was born in his heart, and began to spread. He ran every sentence Merlin said in his head twice, turning it around to uncover the potential lie there.

It was hardest to keep up the charade when they were alone together, Merlin pretending that he wasn't hiding anything, and Arthur pretending that he believed it. Everything about their conversations felt fake, and forced, and fragile. So they rarely talked, and shared increased touches instead, kisses and caresses that allowed Arthur to forget, just for a few moments, that anything had changed. Because this was true, this was honest, this was maybe the only real thing between them. Merlin gave Arthur everything, surrendering every part of himself – everything save his trust.

"Sometimes it feels like there are so many things about you I don't know, but I trust you anyway," Arthur said once, breaking the silence.

He saw Merlin flinch, and knew that the guilt-tripping, at least, was working; but Merlin only said: "Well, that just means you're smarter than you look. Then again, I suppose you'd have to be."

And, yes, Arthur really was an idiot, if he'd never realised that this was what Merlin looked like when he was lying.

Merlin had been right to take him for a fool.

* * *

Sometimes Arthur wanted to scream that he _knew_, damn it, he knew that Merlin was a liar, and had lied to him for years, and would probably have gone on for much longer if Arthur hadn't found out. But he never did, even though something inside him broke just a little more each time Merlin lied. He listened to Merlin's lies and wondered how he had never seen it before. The way Merlin shifted his gaze to the side and smiled ruefully whenever he lied. The way the words seemed to spring easily to his lips, after years of practice.

The way threats seemed to disappear by themselves, and Merlin was always conveniently nowhere to be seen, and when Arthur later asked him where he'd been, he always came up with a half-arsed excuse. Before, Arthur would never have bothered to think about it in depth; now it became clear to him exactly what Merlin was doing when he was out of sight, and it wasn't drinking around in the tavern. In fact, Arthur was beginning to wonder whether Merlin had even been to the tavern more than once since his arrival at Camelot.

One day after a meal in his room, he asked, "How often do you go to the tavern, really?"

Merlin stretched out lazily in his chair before standing to gather up the plates. "I'm never at the tavern," he said easily.

Arthur's heart may have skipped a beat. It was maybe the first time Merlin answered one of his questions honestly.

"Then where are you, every time I have to look for you and you're not in the castle?"

"Hiding from you," Merlin replied, so fluidly that Arthur almost missed the lie.

Almost.

"Right," he said after a beat, tasting something sour in the back of his mouth. "Of course."

It hurt, to think that their easy banter – which Arthur had always enjoyed – was also just a way for Merlin to hide the truth.

* * *

It took several, interminable days for Arthur to realise that it wasn't going to happen. Every time he gave Merlin an opportunity, Merlin deflected it without hesitation, backing away into a lie with practised ease. It was as though the lying had become a part of him, and it never occurred to him to one day tell the truth.

* * *

"You're never going to tell me, are you?"

"Tell you what?" Merlin asked, looking genuinely puzzled, and that was enough of an answer for Arthur.  
It was as though the idea of telling Arthur had never even crossed Merlin's mind.

* * *

He began to resent the magic, of course. Why did Merlin keep using it, when he knew what Arthur thought of it? Had it corrupted him, developed an addiction that Merlin couldn't sate? Arthur wasn't sure what exactly he believed, but the one thing he was certain of was that magic was slowly tearing them apart, and so he despised it.

And then Arthur caught Merlin doing magic.

It was something extremely minor, and if Arthur hadn't known, he might even have missed it. It happened during a day's trip to the forest, which Merlin had suggested to take Arthur's mind off things, not knowing that the "thing" which had Arthur so distant and preoccupied was Merlin himself. Arthur had been lying in the grass, more than half-asleep, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face and the soft caress of Merlin's fingers in his hair, when the touch vanished and Merlin quietly, gently moved away, obviously thinking Arthur had fallen asleep. Arthur opened his eyes and almost asked where he was going, but Merlin only took a few steps and looked into the stream. When Merlin turned back, Arthur closed his eyes again, not really knowing why.

He opened them cautiously to find that Merlin was again looking at the rushing water, a strange expression on his face. Arthur was silent as Merlin held his hand out, palm up, and murmured something.

Before he even noticed the tiny, wavering blue flame that appeared in Merlin's palm, he saw the way Merlin's eyes softened, the wondering, carefree smile on his face, and his expression of childlike amazement, and couldn't find it in himself to feel hatred.

Merlin was being stupid, taking almost no precautions at all, doing magic right in front of Arthur, and – and maybe Merlin did want him to know, after all, but just didn't know how to tell him.

* * *

Afterwards, when Merlin returned to his side and lightly touched his cheek, Arthur pretended to wake up and pulled Merlin into a slow, lazy kiss, and it seemed to him that he could almost feel the magic dancing beneath Merlin's skin.

* * *

It was only a matter of time before Merlin realised that something had changed, and to his credit he figured it out fairly quickly. Then again, there weren't many things capable of damaging their relationship to this extent. It probably wasn't that much of a stretch.

"You know, don't you?" Merlin asked one day.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Arthur watched Merlin closely, and Merlin grimaced.

"About the – the –"

He looked at Arthur helplessly, as though expecting him to finish the sentence, but Arthur just stood there expectantly.

"You _do_ know," Merlin insisted. "I can tell."

"If you mean I know you've been having one of the stable boys groom my horse instead of doing it yourself, then yes, I know," Arthur said. "He told me the very first time. You didn't really think you could keep something like that from the king of Camelot, did you?"

It was petty. Vindictive, even. But Arthur felt satisfied at the flash of disappointment across Merlin's expression, even if the satisfaction only lasted a moment.  
_There. You see. That's what it feels like, to be lied to by the one you love._

* * *

Arthur wasn't sure whether Merlin believed him when he said he didn't know. It took several days for Merlin to bring the subject up again, and he was considerably more nervous this time around.

"Arthur," he said, standing with his back to the door and with a strange expression on his face, like a scared animal. "We need to talk."

Arthur laughed; it came out brittle and harsh. "You do know we're not married, Merlin, don't you?"

"Thank the gods for that," Merlin replied swiftly. "Are you going to listen?"

"It depends. What are you going to say?"

Merlin was silent for a moment. They stared at each other challengingly across the room. Arthur could see the doubt and anxiety in Merlin's expression, and the silent question: _Do you know?_

"Just – don't be angry, all right?" Merlin said. He looked over his shoulder as though to check whether the door was closed. When he turned his head again, he kept his eyes firmly on the floor. "There's something I have to tell you."

Arthur waited, wondering whether Merlin would actually go through with it.

"I –" Merlin swallowed; his Adam's apple bobbed. "I..." His shoulders slumped. "I have magic, Arthur."

The world seemed to spin, all colours blending into a muddled blur, but when it stabilised again, Arthur was still staring at the same old Merlin, with the same blue eyes and stupid cheekbones and neckerchief, and nothing at all had changed.

Arthur blinked.

Merlin's eyes widened. "You knew!" he accused. "You bastard – you _did_! And you said you had no idea – you were _lying_ –"

Arthur gave him a look, and Merlin flushed red and looked at the floor again.

"Right," he mumbled. He ran a hand through his hair.

"You're the one who lied," Arthur said. "I trusted you with my life, with _everything_. You're the only one left I trust, and you –" He stopped, because somehow he'd slipped from past tense to present, and he didn't want to think about what that might mean. "I _trusted_ you," he repeated. "How could you look me in the eye, how could you lie in my bed, how could you kiss me and lie to me in the same breath? How _could_ you?"

Merlin winced. "How long have you known? How did you figure it out?"

"I overheard you when you told Gwaine," Arthur said, and waited for a reaction.

Merlin stiffened. "You... overheard," he repeated slowly. He glanced cautiously at Arthur. "How much?"

Arthur's mouth felt dry. "Enough."

_Enough to know that you don't trust me._

Merlin looked pained. "You were never meant to –"

"Hear that? I know," Arthur said. "Just like I was never meant to know that you have magic. You never would have told me."

"What I said –"

"It's all right." Arthur smiled bitterly. "I've had weeks to get over it."

Merlin looked at him like he knew _weeks_ hadn't been enough, could never be enough. He looked like he knew exactly how deeply Arthur had taken the betrayal.

"I do love you, you know," he said, so quietly Arthur almost missed it, but he didn't say _I do trust you, always have and always will_.

"I know," Arthur replied, and even though Merlin had never said it in so many words, he did know.  
He saw. The weight of Merlin's devotion, the intensity of it sometimes scared him. He wasn't always sure he deserved it. But he knew, he had always known, that it was there. Strong. Unfailing. Unconditional.

Unlike his trust.

"What did you show Gwaine?" Arthur asked, because this was the second thought that had been haunting him for the past few weeks. "That shocked him so much he backed up into a suit of armour?"

"Oh," Merlin said, a small smile curving his lips at the memory. "Oh, it was nothing. He was just surprised at the magic in general, I think. I only made a –"

"Show me," Arthur cut in. "Don't tell me. Show me."

Merlin hesitated, and Arthur tried not to take it personally. Then he held his hand out and said something, his voice strangely harsh and guttural, and not at all a whisper the way it had been when he'd revealed it to Gwaine. He sounded strong and confident.

A small flower unfolded in his palm, red and delicate against the pale backdrop of his hand.

Arthur must have been staring, because Merlin flushed and gave a small, wry smile.

"I didn't want to do anything that might have been construed as aggressive," he explained. "This was the most harmless thing I could think of."

"I don't know," Arthur said, still staring at the flower and thinking that if Merlin had conjured a fire-breathing dragon instead of a flower, he still couldn't have had him arrested. "Roses have thorns, you know."

"Not this one," Merlin said.

He closed his fingers around the flower, and it disappeared. Arthur looked up.

"Did you really think I would have you executed?" he asked softly. "What you told Gwaine –"

"_No_," Merlin said quickly. "No, that was – I didn't really mean it. I've always wanted to tell you. It hurt so much, not being able to, that I sometimes I allowed myself to think you would. But I never really _believed_ it."

"I wish you had," Arthur said. "Told me, I mean. I'd have protected you."

Merlin laughed at that. "You've got it the wrong way around."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, something in his chest going cold at the words.

"I'm the one who's been protecting you, you idiot," Merlin said fondly. "Or did you think the magic was only good for tricks like the one I just showed you? How do you think you've survived this long?"

Arthur said nothing, trying to get his mind around the idea that Merlin not only had magic, but had used it right under his nose for years, and he'd never seen it. Had used it to save his life, even.

"Arthur?" Merlin said, doubt creeping into his tone.

The name was a question all on its own, but Arthur didn't answer.

That first time, with the witch impersonating Lady Helen. Valiant. Ealdor... And how many other times? Arthur felt like the word's biggest fool, and he was supposed to be a king.

"I'm going to get a new manservant, you know," Arthur said after the silence had gone on for too long.

Merlin went completely still.

"One who won't complain about his job, and who will actually be honoured to serve his king."

Merlin started to protest (_I don't, I am, I'll serve you until my dying breath_) but Arthur cut him off with a look.

"Someone who won't call me anything but 'my lord' or 'sire,' whose serving skills will be infinitely more admirable than yours, and – someone who doesn't have magic."

"I understand," Merlin said, his fingernails digging into the wood of the door behind him (something else Arthur's new manservant wouldn't do). "I expected this, I think."

"Did you?"

"You need someone you can trust. That's fine."

Arthur started. "If you think –"

"I said it's fine, Arthur," Merlin said, and he sounded like he meant it. His voice was low and steady, and it was only the way he kept blinking rapidly that clued Arthur in.

"You idiot," Arthur said. "For God's _sake_, Merlin." Was his manservant no longer able to take a joke? "I'm trying to give you a promotion here."

Merlin's head snapped up; Arthur pretended he didn't see the light sheen that glistened over his eyes. "You what?"

"Well, I don't know that many warlocks who'll want to fight for me, and Camelot is going to need help if the ban on magic is to be lifted," Arthur said, trying not to sound like he was enjoying this. "Who else would I pick?"

"You – you want –" Merlin seemed unable to align more than three words. "Lifted?" he said weakly. "But..."

"Are you really _objecting_, Merlin?"

"I don't understand. Why?"

"It's not like you've left me much of a _choice_," Arthur said. "My manservant is a sorcerer. What kind of hypocrite would I be if I allowed things to continue as they are? So," he went on, "I'm going to need a Court Sorcerer, of course, to handle all the problems that are most definitely going to arise. Since it's all your fault anyway, I can't think of a person more suited to the role than you."

Merlin had been smiling by then, but at those last words the hapless grin was wiped right off his face and he blanched. "_No_."

"Merlin –"

"No, no," Merlin said swiftly, throwing a half-desperate glance around the room, like he could think of nothing he wanted more than to spend his life tidying up after Arthur. "You can't – you are _not_ giving me a title. Or a court position. Or – or another stupid hat."

"The thought hadn't even crossed my mind," Arthur lied, quirking a grin at the memory of Merlin in _the hat_. "Look, Merlin, this is meant to be an honour."

"Well, it's not." Merlin looked like he meant it, too.

Arthur tried very hard not to roll his eyes. "Merlin, has anyone ever told you how much of an idiot you are?"

"I know someone who may have mentioned it once or twice," Merlin said, "but I wouldn't put too much faith in him, since he's obviously a prat."

"Don't you _see_?" Arthur asked. "This – what I'm offering, it will change things. You won't have to be a servant anymore. You could – you could give your opinion, and people would _listen_. And you wouldn't have to do chores anymore, or – or have me order you about all the time. You..." He stopped, because they were both fully aware that he was an absolute crap person to have to serve and Merlin really didn't need to hear him admit that aloud. "You'd be important," he said finally, except that wasn't a very convincing argument because Merlin already _was_. "Come on, Merlin – _Court Sorcerer_! Think of all the things you could do."

"But I don't _want_ to," Merlin said, eyes wide. "I don't need you to invent a position just for me. I – I'm fine being your servant."

"Merlin," Arthur said, and he was beginning to be frustrated. "That's just stupid. Why would you want to remain a servant?"

Merlin smiled a little self-deprecatingly, but his voice rang full of sincerity. "Because – because I'm not _a_ servant. I'm _your_ servant. This is how I can be closest to you. I _like_ working for you, helping you as you build the kingdom I've always dreamt of. You're the king, and me – I'm just here to assist you. I'll serve you until my dying breath, Arthur, if you'll let me. It's all I want, all I've ever wanted."

The words took Arthur's breath away, because Merlin said _I'll serve you_ but what he really meant was _I love you_. He had to step forward, and walk across the room until he was close enough to touch Merlin. And then he had to reach out and place his hand at the back of Merlin's neck, fingers curling tenderly in his hair, pulling his servant closer until Arthur's lips were right next to Merlin's ear.

"You _idiot_," he said when he could speak again, but he already knew there was very little he could say that would change Merlin's mind. "Just promise me this, then – that you'll never lie to me again."

"I promise," Merlin said without hesitating.

Arthur now knew what Merlin looked like when he was lying, and this wasn't it.

They stood there, Arthur's hand still light and gentle on the back of Merlin's neck. Merlin's breath was warm and irregular against Arthur's neck; his shoulders shook. Around them, the air hung still and heavy with the weight of truth.

Nothing had ever hurt quite this much. There was no way to go back to the time when things were light and easy between them. No matter how often Arthur replayed the events in his mind, he knew that this outcome had been inevitable from the start. The mistrust had always been there, lurking, and one day he would have been forced to open his eyes and see it. But he also knew they would survive this. He and Merlin had overcome every obstacle they'd ever faced together, and this was just one more.

* * *

Merlin's breath against his skin.  
The warmth of his body pressed against Arthur's.

_"This is how I can be closest to you."_

In spite of everything – the lies, the bitterness, the betrayal – nothing had ever felt this right.


	8. Apotheosis

**I'm really sorry, I know it's been a while since I updated. And it will probably be another while before I update again, as I'm going on vacation for a week. But yeah, this is still in progress.  
**

**So this chapter was suggested by Humanized Serenity. Thank you! I don't know if this is at all what you had in mind and I probably skipped out on a lot of confusion, but I had lots of fun writing it. **

War – Poets of the Fall**. Dare to tell me this is not a Merthur song and I will strike you down. I can't stop listening to it.**

**Enjoy! This chapter is still Merthur (couldn't help myself, sorry; actually it was meant to be friendship only for once), still a little angsty (or at least meant to be), still a happy ending, and still a reveal. It's also 9k, features awesome!Gwaine and is very focused on destiny.**

**Maybe leave a review to tell me what you think?**

* * *

"Do you think you could write one where the Druids or some sorcerer sees Merlin and kneels down and treats him like a God or something because he is Emrys, and Arthur (or Gwaine) is really confused?"

* * *

**Apotheosis**

* * *

Arthur forced a smile, trying to mask his irritation as Bayard roared in laughter as his own joke. This was diplomacy at its ugliest; two kings entertaining each other, all for the sake of celebrating a friendship that was just for show. The peace with Mercia had been steady for several years now _(ever since that treaty when Merlin had drunk poison for him)_ but war had raged for many more years before the treaty was signed, and there was still an underlying tension to every exchange between the two kingdoms, especially since Uther's death. Bayard had sent his condolences, and he had not taken advantage of the kingdom's most fragile times, but he had watched on and waited, and Arthur was certain he had been more than a little disappointed when Camelot had pulled through. Mercia was no longer an enemy of Camelot, but neither could it be counted on as an ally.

There was no love lost between the two kings. Bayard was a man of his word and a good swordsman, but he and Arthur rarely saw eye to eye about anything, and any further attempt to sign a new, more binding accord had failed. In fact, Arthur couldn't understand how his father had managed to negotiate the initial peace treaty, as Bayard seemed inflexible about his own laws and didn't hesitate to criticise Camelot's. Magic was legal in Mercia, and that alone could have been enough for Uther to never agree to peace with the kingdom, but his worry for the welfare of his people had overridden his hatred of magic. Uther had been a strong king, and sometimes when Bayard spoke almost mockingly of Camelot, Arthur wondered whether he lacked that strength.

He had chosen to ride to Mercia in a show of friendship, and Bayard had welcomed him with open arms. The delegation he had chosen to accompany him was deliberately small but not unintimidating – five of his nobles, five of his knights. Dressed in red and firmly seated on their horses, Arthur knew they struck an imposing figure, but couldn't be construed as an affront or a threat. When they'd arrived, Bayard had looked at them as though he understood the choice, and had given Arthur an amused smile. And his gaze had gone immediately to Merlin, who sat on his horse directly behind Arthur, and a flicker of recognition had crossed his face, the smile becoming more genuine.

"It is a wise decision to keep such a loyal servant by your side," Bayard had said after greeting Arthur. "From what I remember, it would be a mistake not to have him always with you. It is not every man who would drink poison for his prince."

Arthur had nodded curtly, because if there was one thing that he couldn't fault Merlin for, it was his loyalty. The memory of Merlin, raising a hand to his throat as the poison took effect, and then crumpling to the ground and letting the goblet roll across the floor... It had been the first time that Arthur realised that if Merlin wasn't there, it would _matter_.  
They had stayed for three days, long enough for his men to rest from the trip, and for Bayard to diplomatically refuse Arthur's newest attempt to strengthen the bond between their kingdoms.

"Camelot would be a valuable ally, but our politics are too incompatible," Bayard had said. "I am glad I can always count on peace with your kingdom, but I fear anything more is impossible."

At least Bayard had the tact not to ask a sorcerer to entertain his guests. Arthur had felt his spine go rigid the first time the lights in the banquet hall had all been lit at once at a word from a servant, but Bayard had arched his eyebrows as though daring him to say something, and Arthur had let it slide because this was Mercia, not Camelot.

"It is convenient," Bayard had said later, when Arthur was watching the servant – a woman, her eyes downcast and with nothing extraordinary about her – refill Percival's goblet. "There is no harm in a little show of lights."

"How can you trust them?" Arthur had asked despite himself, forcing himself to look away from the witch.

"Uther always overestimated magic," Bayard had said. "She has little power, certainly not enough to destroy my kingdom. There are restrictions on the types of sorcery allowed, and she would be executed if she broke the law. She is certainly no more dangerous than one of my swordsmen, and I trust my swordsmen not to slit my throat while I sleep."

After that, Arthur had kept seeing the witch everywhere. He wasn't sure whether Bayard intentionally put her on his path just to irritate him, or whether it really was a coincidence, but at every meal she was there, serving one of his knights. In the corridors he found her walking with a pile of laundry in her arms. Once, he caught her rearranging flowers in his chambers, and though she bowed and left immediately when he entered, the encounter left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. And now, during this last banquet in Mercia, she was there again, standing at the other end of the room, her back to the wall. Her eyes flitted in Arthur's direction at least as often as his own fell on her, and though Arthur quickly glanced away every time, her gaze was heavy and insistent.

It was only when Merlin stepped forward to refill his glass, and then returned to his position, that Arthur realised it _wasn't_ him she was staring at. It was his manservant. Her eyes followed his every move, and since he shadowed Arthur, the mistake was easily made. But now that Arthur had realised it, he saw her gaze was actually focused on a spot slightly behind him, and when Merlin moved away to serve Gwaine and use the occasion to speak to him, the witch turned slightly and looked at them.

The combination of blue eyes and dark hair was rare in Mercia, but not _that_ rare, and it seemed absurd to Arthur that the woman could have taken a liking to Merlin. She had to be at least five years older than him. Then again, maybe they had become friendly over the past few days; Merlin tended to be good at socialising with servants from other kingdoms. But Merlin knew she had magic. He had seen it as clearly as Arthur said. Surely he wouldn't want anything to do with her, even out of politeness.

Arthur watched, feeling strangely irritated, as she slowly began to move around the large table and made her way to where Gwaine was sitting. She served a new goblet of wine to the man beside Arthur's knight, and still her eyes were on Merlin. She said nothing, but her hand reached out to brush against Merlin's sleeve almost furtively, so lightly that Merlin didn't even notice. But Arthur did.

After that, he couldn't focus on the meal, or even on Bayard speaking beside him. He watched the sorceress intently, and though she didn't try to approach Merlin again, her eyes were always on him, and there was an expression on her face that Arthur couldn't begin to decipher.

* * *

Arthur was glad to be leaving. Bayard's castle was grand, but it couldn't compare to the beauty of Camelot, and there was something about being in Mercia that set Arthur's teeth on edge. Even travelling to Queen Annis' kingdom never made him feel like this, despite their past. So when one of Bayard's stable boys came to Arthur and told him their horses were ready, he wasn't sure he managed to conceal his relief.

Merlin led Arthur's horse out and waited while he mounted, then disappeared back into the stables to get his own horse. Arthur watched him leave, thinking he'd be glad when they were back in Camelot and Merlin _wouldn't_ be spending his days silently doing his bidding just to make Camelot look good. Arthur had long since come to terms with the fact that he actually _liked_ Merlin's incompetence and irreverence, and seeing him do his best to act like a perfect servant, even for just three days, had been unsettling.

When Merlin came back, he fumbled with his saddle girth for a moment. As he was about to swing up into the saddle, a soft voice rose up from behind Arthur and they both turned to see a woman fall to her knees and bow her head.

"My lord," she said, her voice hopeful and questioning. "My lord, it _is_ you, isn't it?"

"There's no need –" Arthur began, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle, but the woman continued as though she had not even heard him.

She tilted her head, and there was an expression of awe and bliss on her upturned face, and it was that more than anything which allowed him to recognise her as the servant who had been looking at Merlin during the meal. The one who had magic.

"My _lord_," she repeated with a a fervour in her voice that Arthur had never heard in any of _his_ subjects, and it was then that Arthur saw that her eyes were again focused on a point somewhere behind him, and also then that he realised that a servant of Bayard's castle would not kneel like that before the king of Camelot. "I am your faithful servant."

He turned slowly, but no Mercian lord had appeared behind him. There was only his knights. His knights and _Merlin_, who looked stricken as he stared down at the woman, and she stared right back, her eyes bright. A strange feeling of foreboding crept over Arthur, and he slid down the side of his horse and stepped closer to the witch.

"What –" he began, but again she woman interrupted him, as though he simply did not exist.

"My name is Lucia, my lord," she said, eyes still on Merlin, which made no sense at all. "I am a follower of the Old Religion."

Arthur's fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, and he had to remind himself that Camelot's laws were not applicable here before he could unclench his hand. Leon stepped up until he was standing on Arthur's right side, perhaps intending to back him up; Arthur could not find the will to smile at him.

"If there is any way in which I can serve you, you only have to say the word, sire," Lucia said, and that was it, the last straw.

"Sire!" Arthur repeated, incredulous; he felt Leon tense beside him. "What on earth are you talking about, woman? Merlin is a _servant_."

She turned the full force of her stare on him, and Arthur almost stepped back. She had green eyes that were large and unblinking and really rather unsettling. Her pale hair was held back from her face by a thin leather strap knotted at her nape, and all in all she looked too calm, too regal, too _powerful_ for someone wearing a servant's clothes and kneeling in the dirt.

_Magic._

"I am not mistaken," she said. "I have dreamt of this moment, and I do not need to lay eyes on him to recognise Emrys. As you have, so has he been foretold. And his destiny is not to be a mere _servant_." She spat the word out, as though Merlin being a servant was a personal offense to her. "I have watched you these past three days, and I have seen what you think of him." She looked at Merlin. "Why are you silent, my lord? Why do you not defend yourself?"

Arthur turned to his manservant, who seemed to be fighting an interior battle with himself. Conflicting emotions crossed his expression, until finally he shook his head. Arthur felt a tension he had not known was there depart from his shoulders, and he relaxed.

"You have the wrong man, Lucia," Merlin said, but his smile was forced at best. "I've never heard of whoever it is you're talking about."

A shadow passed over Lucia's expression. "I would recognise you anywhere, my lord, in any disguise."

"Have you met her before?" Arthur asked.

"I've never seen her in my life," Merlin said, and Arthur believed him.

"Nor I you," Lucia said. "I am blessed to have chanced upon you on this day. Your magic is the –"

Several things happened at once.

Gwaine let out an angry, incredulous cry, effectively silencing Lucia, and sprang forward so that he was beside Arthur, his hand already going for his sword. Lucia raised one hand as though about to cast a spell, and Merlin moved quickly, pushing his way past Arthur to place himself between Lucia and the knights, facing Lucia.

"Don't!" Merlin said, and he sounded scared out of his wits. "Stop it, please, don't say anyth –"

"This is ridiculous," Arthur said, setting his jaw in anger, because who did this woman think she was, accusing Merlin like that? He stepped forward, his hand closing around the hilt of his sword once more. "This wickedness may be legal in Mercia, but I will _not_ tolerate this sort of insinuation about one of _my_ subjects –"

"Emrys is not _your_ subject. He is no one's subject but his own, and magic's," Lucia retorted instantly. "He chooses to follow you, but you do not have any hold over him that he does not _allow_ you to have. If there is to be a hierarchy, then it would be just as fitting to say that _you_ were his subject, sire."

Gwaine laughed, though it was tense, and he didn't sound like he really thought it was amusing. Arthur didn't miss the complete absence of reverence in Lucia's tone when she spoke to him. However mad this woman seemed, she was completely convinced that she was in the right. That Merlin was deserving of her deference and her defense.

"This Emrys, it's supposed to be _Merlin_?" Gwaine said.

"Oh for the love of – there's really no way to salvage this, is there?" Merlin asked, except it wasn't really a question.

It sounded and tasted and felt more like an admission of guilt, and Arthur wished he could say _Yes, there is, just shut up and let me handle it_, but a part of him already knew that _this_ was broken beyond repair.

"You couldn't have chosen a better time," Merlin muttered. "Brilliant. This is just brilliant. Oh – would you just _get up_ already? It isn't making things any easier."

Merlin took Lucia's hands in his and helped her rise.

"Don't ever kneel to me again," he told Lucia. "And stop talking about me like that. I'm not anything _special_. I'm a servant, just like you."

"You are magic," Lucia said simply, as though it explained everything.

And, in a way, it did.

_Everything_.

Those three simple words shattered Arthur's world, sending it flying in a million tiny pieces, each like a shard of glass with the potential to pierce his heart. They were shards of glass suspended in mid-air, waiting for confirmation, unsure whether to destroy him or release him, and –

"Well, so are you, aren't you?" Merlin said. "That's how you know who I am."

Destroy him.

Beside him, Gwaine inhaled sharply, and that was what grounded Arthur. He hadn't misheard, he hadn't imagined it; Merlin had confessed. Arthur felt something in his throat tighten, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. _No. Impossible._ Of all people, Merlin couldn't – _wouldn't_ – lie to him. He couldn't believe the word of this woman against Merlin's, Merlin who had always been by his side, never failed him, been there for him when it seemed like the entire world had turned against Arthur. Merlin who had time and time again risked his life for Arthur, _Arthur_, not for Camelot, not for the king, not for honour or anything that actually made sense but for _Arthur_.

"I _have_ magic," Lucia admitted. "But you, you _are_ magic."

There was no malice in her tone, which just made everything a hundred times worse. She was lying, she had to be. Because Merlin wouldn't.

And yet Merlin was not looking at Arthur, not looking at anyone, in fact, and there was a strange set to his jaw, as though he were struggling to hold back tears.

"The world has never known one such as you. Emrys, he who holds the power over life and death, he who will restore the balance in this world, he who is and will be the most powerful sorcerer to ever grace this land. Your magic burns bright. I can sense it here." She raised a folded fist to her chest, over her heart. "It is how I recognised you. He who stands at the right of the Once and Future King and wields such power can only be Emrys."

"How can you be so sure?" Gwaine asked, but there was no challenge in his words.

It was a genuine question, expecting an answer, and that was how Arthur realised – Gwaine _believed_. He had taken all of a minute to be convinced, and his first reaction was not anger or fear. It was curiosity. Merlin half-turned, and looked up at Gwaine, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips.  
Arthur looked away.

"I was born in Camelot," Lucia said, and it was then that Arthur realised that there was no trace of a Mercian accent in her voice. "I _am_ from Camelot. I was born before the Purge, and my mother possessed a small bit of magic. She sensed my potential when I was still very young and brought me up in the ways of the Old Religion. At the time, it was not illegal or even uncommon."

Lucia hesitated, darting a doubtful glance at Arthur before continuing.

"I was six years old when the Queen died," she said, and the words woke a deep, latent ache in Arthur that could not even hope to compare with the fresh pain of Merlin's betrayal. "When the first whispers of the Purge reached us, my mother gave me into the care of a druid camp that was fleeing Camelot, because she strongly believed in the Old Religion and wanted me to be able to live that faith freely. She stayed behind to gather our belongings and try to convince our relatives to come with us. She promised to find me again, but –" Lucia swallowed. "I never saw her again."

Merlin shifted. "I'm sorry," he said, but he was saying it to the wrong person for the wrong reasons and Arthur wanted to hit him for it.

Lucia shrugged. "It happened years ago," she said, as though time could heal that sort of wound; Arthur knew firsthand that it couldn't. "I hardly remember her. I grew up with the druids who had taken me in, and in some ways it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I recited the rhymes and heard the tales and learnt by heart the prophecies that speak of your coming."

"The prophecies," someone echoed, and it was Arthur. He hardly recognised his own voice. It sounded exactly like he felt – tight and strained and broken. "What prophecies?"

"Arthur –" Merlin started, but Arthur silenced him with a movement of his hand.  
He couldn't bring himself to look at Merlin. "Not you," he said. "Her."

Lucia did not seem to fear looking at him; her gaze was solid and unflinching, almost a blessing when everything else in Arthur's world felt like it was about to break. Or maybe like it had already broken, and nothing could put it back together in exactly the same way.

"The prophecies that speak of Emrys and the Once and Future King," she said. "Both of whom have great destinies. Together, they will build a new world." She half-closed her eyes, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Would you like to hear one?"

Arthur did not answer, thinking _yesnoyesIdon'tknow_. Lucia swayed slightly, as though the words required a great physical effort. Her mouth opened, and when she spoke her voice had deepened somewhat, and it seemed to Arthur as though she were breathing magic.

* * *

"When high is the need and higher still the death toll,

Two will rise above the rest, two halves of the same whole,

One full of magic, to preserve the balance of the world,

The other with a sword and a crown of gold.

* * *

The Once and Future King will rule Albion with a gentle hand;

And by his side, Emrys will bring magic back to the land.

His wisdom will stay the king's sword, and his love will temper his own power.

Together they will achieve what they would do for no other.

* * *

Albion will be united in a golden age of peace and prosperity,

All will live under the same law in equality.

Two will listen to the call of their destiny,

And their reign will stretch out into eternity."

* * *

When she was finished, her words seemed to echo eerily in the air, adding a depth and seriousness to them that made the moment almost unbearable. Arthur had to fight not to look at Merlin to see how he was taking this. Had he ever heard the rhyme before? _Emrys will bring magic back to the land_.

"And this – this king," Arthur said finally, tasting something sour in the back of his mouth. "It's supposed to be –"

"You," Merlin said, despite Arthur's order. His voice was soft, almost pleading. "It's you, Arthur. It's always been you. My king –"

"_Shut up_," Arthur said, because he couldn't hear this now; each word was like a dagger thrust straight into his heart.

He could remember things Merlin had done with his magic, as though someone had lifted a veil from his memories and he could see clearly for the first time. This was true magic, powerful enough to have saved him, to have stopped immortal armies and dragons and magical beasts, and the idea that it could be _Arthur_'s if he said the word was –

"I share your dream." Lucia's eyes were bright with silent but certain devotion; she was looking at Merlin again. "You are the one who will build the world I wish to live in. A world where we will not have to live in fear or oppression. A world of freedom and equality in all things. Some of the Old Religion have turned against the Pendragon line –," she bowed her head to Arthur, though it was nowhere near as deep as her bows to Merlin – "but in our hearts, we all share _your_ dream and we all follow _you_, my lord."

"I follow Arthur," Merlin said firmly, but the words no longer held any meaning.

He didn't. He had betrayed Arthur in the worst possible way – growing close to him before revealing his duplicity after so long.

"Then the Once and Future King has my allegiance," Lucia said, "for if he is chosen by you his destiny will burn brighter than the sun."

Arthur closed his eyes briefly, feeling the ground sway beneath his feet. He felt Leon's hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly, and felt grateful for the touch which helped ground him again.

"My lord," Leon said, but whatever else he might have wanted to say was lost because Arthur heard _My lord_ and thought _Emrys_ and said:

"Be quiet, Leon."

Leon fell silent, not without shooting his king a hurt, reproachful look.

"I will serve you," Lucia said, "and I will serve your king, for if you –"

"Shut up," Arthur said. "Damn it, would you just _leave_? You've done enough harm for one day, don't you think?"

Lucia ducked her head in the semblance of a bow, then bowed much more deeply to Merlin before moving back to stand several steps away, which only served to irritate Arthur even further. It wasn't that he was that petty, really, but every mark of respect from this witch reminded him of Merlin's betrayal.

_Merlin_. Arthur finally looked at him.

Merlin was still standing in the exact same spot, and still looking at Gwaine, but only because he seemed unable to bring himself to look at Arthur. Merlin who had not uttered a single word in his own defense, Merlin who still looked as though he might cry at any second, as though his world had just been shattered as surely as Arthur's had.

"Merlin," Arthur said, his voice rough; Merlin's eyes shot to his, startled. "Tell me it isn't true."

There was a moment where all the knights appeared to be holding their breaths, and it seemed like everything might change again. Arthur stared at Merlin, knowing that despite everything, if his manservant looked him in the eye and told him it was all a lie, then Arthur would believe him. Because he desperately _wanted_ to believe him, to trust him like he always had. He needed a reason to hold on to that trust, to their friendship. But Merlin only stared back at him, helpless and _speechless_.

By this point it wasn't a surprise, but it still knocked the breath out of Arthur. He shielded his eyes with his hand and swallowed with difficulty, but his eyes did not water even though he felt the pain of betrayal in his gut as sharply as if Merlin had stabbed him.

"You –" Arthur said, advancing on Merlin, his hand going to his sword.

This time, it wasn't Leon's steady presence at his side that stayed his hand, but Gwaine. Gwaine who suddenly appeared between Arthur and Merlin, sword unsheathed and in hand. And it wasn't Merlin he was facing.

"Try it, and maybe we'll have a chance to find out who _really_ would have won that fight," Gwaine said with a small grin.

It sounded like a joke, it looked like a joke, and Arthur desperately wanted to believe it _was_ a joke. But beyond the light tone and the smile, Gwaine's eyes were dark and utterly serious, and Arthur knew he meant every word. Arthur was not afraid, but neither was he stupid enough to test his knights' allegiance by fighting one of them while the others watched. And now that Gwaine called him on it, he realised that whatever he had been about to do to Merlin was not a good idea, either.

Arthur stepped back and let his hand drop to his side again. "We'll talk about your insubordination later, _sir_ Gwaine," he said, and it was more of a threat than a reprieve.

Gwaine's smile faded, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement, his spine rigid and his shoulders stiff. "Sire."

And still he didn't sheathe his sword.

* * *

Gwaine's selfless, reckless, _stupid_ stand had tears pricking at Merlin's eyes, if they hadn't been there already. He wanted to hug his friend, or maybe yell at him for being such an idiot. Because Merlin didn't deserve this – Gwaine putting his life on the line for him, throwing away everything he had just to choose Merlin over Arthur. That was, essentially, what he had just done. The aim hadn't even been to defend Merlin, because there was little Arthur could do to Merlin if Merlin wouldn't let him, and Gwaine had to know. It had been Gwaine's way of saying _Arthur, you may be my king but Merlin is my friend, and if it comes down to a choice between the two of you, this is what I choose_. As though Merlin hadn't lied to Gwaine just as much as he had lied to Arthur.

It had taken Gwaine about a minute and a half to accept that and just _get past it_, like it didn't really matter. Merlin cast a swift glance at the rest of the knights still standing behind Arthur. They all looked unhappy at this outcome, but not particularly angry; Merlin could have sworn he saw one of them rolling his eyes at Gwaine and whispering something that made the knight next to him grin.

That just left Arthur, then. Arthur who had been about to – to do what exactly, Merlin would luckily never know, thanks to Gwaine's intervention. Arthur whose opinion, ultimately, was the only one that mattered, and not just because he was the king. Merlin met Arthur's gaze as steadily as he could.

"So it's true, then," Arthur said flatly. "You're a sorcerer."

"Yes," Merlin said.

He didn't even _want_ to deny it. He had always wanted Arthur to know, but not like this. He knew that Arthur deserved to have Merlin tell him himself, and that it had happened like this – not by choice, but because someone else had decided for him – made a lie out of everything they had ever shared. It had already shattered Arthur's trust in him, and it might yet destroy other, more precious things.

"A powerful one?" Arthur asked, and his expression was guarded, revealing nothing.

"Apparently."

"And you've been using magic in the heart of Camelot," Arthur said, sounding very calm, but he wasn't, he couldn't be. "Ever since we first met."

"Yes."

"You've used it on me."

It wasn't a question, but Merlin heard the note of uncertainty in Arthur's voice, as though he were still hoping that this was all a dream he could still wake up from. Merlin hated to have to extinguish that hope.

"Yes," he said again, watching Arthur's expression closely.

It may have been his imagination, but he thought he saw Arthur's eyes darken and his shoulders drop almost imperceptibly. It was as subtle as the faint sigh that fell from his lips, and just as painful. Merlin wanted to say, _Never against you, never to hurt you_, but he had a feeling Arthur wouldn't care, would still see it as the worst kind of betrayal.

"Gwaine," Merlin said softly, "could you – step aside, please? I'll be fine."

Gwaine smiled. "Never doubted it."

He sheathed his sword and retreated, proving that he did know that Merlin could defend himself just fine.

"Did you know?" Arthur asked him.

"No," Merlin answered, even though the question wasn't meant for him. "No one knew, Arthur. I wouldn't have told one of your knights."

He caught Gwaine's eye, and was pleased to see no blame or hurt there, just calm acceptance, like he understood that Merlin could never have told him, because Merlin hadn't even been able to tell the one person who most deserved to know.

"Right," Arthur said, his jaw clenched. "You didn't tell them, and you didn't tell _me_, either. All these years, and you never once thought to _tell me_ that you have magic and that you're some kind of – of magical royalty."

"Of _what_? I'm not!" Merlin said. "I'm really _not_."

"Well then what are you? This woman, Lucia, she worships you like you're some kind of god. I'm a king and I've _never_ seen anyone kneel like that, Merlin. Or should I call you _Emrys_ now? You even lied about your name!"

"I didn't," Merlin insisted. "My mother named me Merlin, that _is_ my name. Emrys is just a title."

"Oh, a _title_," Arthur said heavily. "_Just_ a title. Like 'King.'"

"Yes!" Merlin said, relieved, and then: "Wait, what? _No!_"

"It is not a title," Lucia said from where she was standing a few steps away.

"I thought I asked you to leave!" Arthur said, and Merlin thought he knew how he felt.

"Emrys is the prophesised warlock, destined to revive the Old Religion and bring magic back to the land," Lucia went on, calmly ignoring Arthur. "It has been your name among those of us who practise the Old Religion for decades, my lord. I grew up hearing it."

Merlin shot her a look that he hoped conveyed the message, _This is really not helping_. She only smiled back, and then – there it was again, that light in her eyes which spoke of longing and trust and devotion. It scared Merlin, that the weight of such hope should rest on his shoulders, when he was making such a mess of it all.

"Stop calling me that. I'm not a _lord_," Merlin said, a little desperately, because it was the only thing that sprang to mind.

Lucia smiled. "It is only a title," she said gently, parrotting his own words back to him. "Do not read anything into it but the deep respect we have for you."

"Oh for God's sake," Arthur said, pressing the heel of his hands to his eyes. "Can you – can you leave us, please? Really leave us?" He lowered his hand and looked around at his knights. "All of you."

The knights hesitated, but eventually they all turned and walked away. Even Gwaine, though he waited for Merlin's nod to move off. Lucia, however, did not move from her place.

"Are you sure –"

"Yes," Merlin said firmly.

"Merlin, come _on_!"

Merlin jumped and glanced at Arthur, who was already several feet away, obviously heading for the forest beyond the castle. He motioned for Merlin to follow.

"Does he treat you fairly, my lord?" Lucia asked worriedly.

Arthur yelped from behind him, and despite everything, Merlin couldn't not be amused.

"Yes," he said, darting another backwards glance at Arthur, who had turned a very interesting shade of red. "Really, Lucia, it's all right. You don't have to worry about me. I can take care of myself."

Lucia's cheeks pinkened. "Of course, my lord."

Merlin sighed. "And you have to stop calling me that. I'm the son of a peasant."

"The son of a dragonlord," Lucia corrected.

Merlin's blood ran cold. He was so stunned he couldn't speak. How could she _know_?

Lucia smiled gentle. "_Dragon's kin and dragon's name, to unite the land only they can claim_," she recited, not so quietly that Arthur wouldn't hear. "Emrys and Arthur Pendragon, dragonlord and dragon's name."

"_What?_" Arthur said. "How is that– oh God, Balinor was your father. Your _father_!"

Merlin cast him a stricken look, because perhaps Arthur was too trusting, but he was anything but stupid, and there was a terrifying note of dawning comprehension in his voice. Now that he knew Merlin was a dragonlord, it was only a matter of time before he realised that he hadn't killed the dragon. That Kilgarrah was still alive. He might even figure out that Merlin was the one who had released him in the first place, causing all those deaths. And from there he would go on to doubt every single thing he'd ever accomplished, every impossible stroke of luck and every unforeseeable betrayal, and he would realise that _every last one_ had been Merlin's fault.

Merlin shoved Lucia away from him. "Why don't you just _disappear_? You've made a mess out of everything. Do you even realise what you've done? You've just single-handedly destroyed _everything_ I've fought for for the past five years."

She stared back at him unflinchingly. "Have I?" she said calmly, her voice pitched low enough that Arthur wouldn't hear. "Or was that your own doing, when you did not trust the one whose destiny it is to have you by his side? You would have as king above all others a man whom you cannot even trust. How is that any man's fault but your own?"

He winced, thinking of the betrayed expression on Arthur's face. Lucia looked at him pityingly, but there was no gentleness in her tone when she said:

"It is his destiny to rule Albion, and rule well. It is written in stars that he will bring magic back to his kingdom. But he can do neither without you. He will never realise how much he needs you if you do not let him see it for himself."

"Oh, just go away," Merlin said, but his anger had deflated and his tone lacked bitterness.

Lucia smiled faintly, and this time, she did leave.

Merlin watched her walk away. He braced himself and turned to follow Arthur, who was walking away without looking back, as though he _knew_ that Merlin would always follow him if he asked.

* * *

Green leaves hung overheard, casting dancing shadows across the dirt and half-shielding them from the golden sunshine. Arthur's face was shadowed and unreadable, and he wasn't saying anything. The silence seemed interminable, and it was Merlin who broke it first.

"What are you going to do?"

"I think a better question is, what can I do that you wouldn't be able to prevent?"

Merlin winced. "I wouldn't stop you with magic."

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"I know I haven't been honest with you, but if you ever trusted me at all, then believe this. I can give you this one thing, at least. If you want to exile me, I'll go, I swear. If you want to imprison me, I won't escape."

"And if I wanted to have you executed?" Arthur asked, his voice like a chill down Merlin's spine. "That's generally the punishment applied for practising sorcery in Camelot, you know."

Merlin shook his head, his throat tight. "I wouldn't stop you, but Gwaine probably would."

Arthur smiled, but his expression held no warmth, and Merlin could see that was another betrayal he was struggling with. "I'd like to see him try." He looked out into the distance. "Why should I trust you?"

It was more of a plea than a question, as though Arthur were begging Merlin to give him a reason.

"Because I've never done anything to harm you or Camelot," Merlin said. "I may have lied, but everything I've done since I came to Camelot has been for _you_, Arthur. There's so much you don't know –"

"I can see _that_," Arthur said sharply.

"– but I'll tell you, if you want to know. All you have to do is ask."

"How do I know you'll tell the truth?"

"I swear –"

"_I don't trust you_," Arthur said. "You could promise me the world, Merlin, and I wouldn't believe you."

"At least trust that I'm yours," Merlin said desperately. "I've never harmed you, I've never wanted to, and I never will. I'm your _servant_, Arthur."

"You were supposed to be my _friend_," Arthur shot back.

Merlin froze, his spine going rigid. He wasn't mistaken; that slightly off note in Arthur's voice was hurt, not anger. And Merlin wasn't sure how to deal with hurt. He wanted to say, _I _am_ your friend, I'm a hundred times more than that, I'm anything you want me to be_, but what use would it be if Arthur didn't believe him?

"I don't want to fight with you," he said instead. "Tell me what you want, and I'll do my best to give it. But let's not do it like this, Arthur. I can't."

Arthur opened his mouth to retort, then shook his head as though clearing his thoughts. He breathed out a little sigh.

"I wish I could say no to you," he said, and he sounded calm and very, very tired. "I wish I could hate you –" Merlin's heart leapt – "but even after this, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to. You've lied to me about _everything_ for _years_. You're not who I thought you were, _we_'re not what I thought we were, and still I –" He shook his head again.

"You what?" Merlin asked, his heart in his throat, because for a moment there, he'd almost thought –

"Why are you still my servant?" Arthur asked. "You could be free somewhere else. It can't be worth it, being a mere servant in Camelot –"

"_Your_ servant," Merlin interrupted. "It's not just my job, Arthur. It's who I _am_. Beyond the magic, beyond the lies – that won't ever change. I'm your servant, and if you'll let me, I'll serve you until the day I die. "

"Because I'm the Once and Future King."

"Because you're _Arthur_," Merlin said. "To me, you –"

"I'm destined to bring magic back to Camelot, aren't I? Or at least that's what you think. That's why you follow me, that's why you've stayed with me for so long, because of my _destiny_ –"

"Arthur –"

"Were you disappointed?" Arthur asked. "When you saw I wasn't all I was meant to be, were you –"

"You _are_," Merlin said. "You're everything you were meant to be and more, a thousand times more, and I'm not your servant because of destiny, I _want_ to be your servant."

"Why would you want to serve a man whose laws order the execution of your kind? You've only lasted this long because you think you can change my mind."

"Yes!" Merlin said. "Yes, that's true, I _do_ want you to change your mind about magic so you can accept _me_. Do you have any idea –" he hesitated, then continued – "any idea how hard it was to lie about who I am, because if you knew you'd have me killed? To look you in the eye and pretend everything was fine when it was killing me inside? To listen to you tell me all magic was evil and you would never accept it, when all along I – I –" He choked on his last words, knowing he couldn't say them.

"Then you should have just left!" Arthur said. "If it was such a chore being with me, you should have left! I never _asked_ you to come to Camelot."

Merlin gasped at the unexpected pain the words brought. Arthur hadn't said _You should have said something_, but _I wouldn't have wanted you there_.

"You would have _died_ a hundred times without me!"

The words hung in the air between them, strangely loud in the sudden silence, like an echo of Merlin's hurt.

"A hundred," Arthur repeated, his voice hollow in a way that sent shivers up Merlin's spine.

"I meant –"

"A hundred," Arthur said again. "Every time when I wasn't looking – when I was knocked out – that was you?"

"I don't –"

"I didn't kill the dragon, did I? Lucia said you're a dragonlord."

"Arthur, I promise I never –"

"That's a no, then." Arthur closed his eyes. "Damn you, Merlin."

"I'm sorry," Merlin said quietly. "I know I lied, but –"

Arthur snorted. "The _lies_. It's not even the magic, for you, is it? The magic is _nothing_ to you."

"It's everything," Merlin said. "It's like the air you breathe – you can't live without it, but you don't spend every minute of the day thinking about it."

"Yeah," Arthur said, "except I've never killed anyone by breathing air."

Merlin stared at him, stunned beyond belief that Arthur could say anything so cruel, so callous to him. The pause lasted just a second too long, and Arthur's eyes widened.

"Oh God – you have, haven't you? You've _killed_ people with magic."

"It's not like that –"

"How did you manage to keep this a secret for so long when you're such a lousy liar when it comes to everything else? You're lying, Merlin. You _have_."

"Yes," Merlin said, "but –"

"But it was all for a good cause? All for the sake of – of what, exactly? What have you been doing in Camelot all this time? Plotting –"

"Oh _please_," Merlin said, feeling his temper rise for the first time in this conversation. "It's been _years_, Arthur. I could have done anything I wanted to Camelot, to you, but I've been too busy saving your arse every day! Do you have any idea of the amount of near-death experiences you've had? I've spent every waking hour serving you so I can be by your side the next time you get into trouble. That's what my magic is _for_, Arthur. To protect you."

"So that the Once and Future King can bring magic back to the land," Arthur said dully.

"So that you _live_ long enough to actually _do_ something! You can't seriously think that I wanted to _harm_ you, when all I've been doing all along is saving you. You would have died before you were even of age if it wasn't for me!"

"You knew of the prophecy when you became my servant, didn't you? That's why you saved my life that first time – that's why you stayed, why you've always stayed, because of what I'm _destined_ to do. And all that talk about believing in me – it was because some fortune-teller told you we were destined, that I would save your skinny arse from execution, that I would make magic lawful again –"

"That's not _true_," Merlin cut in. "When I was told that –"

"Don't interrupt me!"

"– I didn't even believe it! I thought you were the Once and Future Prat, destined to be the most stupid and annoying king the world has ever seen."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest reflexively, but Merlin raised his voice and spoke quickly.

"And even now, you're not just the Once and Future King. You're Arthur, and you're still a prat sometimes, and I serve you because I want to, because you're my king, and because I wouldn't want to be anywhere else but here, by your side, and that's where I'll always be. I have magic, but it's yours, Arthur, it's always been yours. You can do whatever you want with it, with me."

That, there, was all Arthur needed to know, and all Merlin had to say.

He waited.

Arthur's expression was conflicted, like he wasn't sure whether he ought to feel flattered or insulted, and knew that neither was really an option if he wanted to stay angry.

"Why?" he asked. "If it's not destiny, then what?"

Merlin shook his head tightly, thinking _Don't make me say it._

"You know why," he said thickly. "You've always known."

It wasn't something they talked about. Arthur had never let it come between them before, had never even hinted that he knew, but how could he not? Merlin had thrown himself in front of a Dorocha for Arthur, he had taken a mace to the chest and almost died, he'd even drunk poison. And he hadn't done it just because of _destiny_.

"I thought –" Arthur said, hesitant, because he did know. "I used to think you might –"

"Yeah," Merlin said.

"His wisdom stays the king's sword..." Arthur recited slowly, his voice trailing off meaningfully.

_And his love tempers his own power._

Arthur looked at him, and the air between them was suddenly charged with something more, not just tension and anger and hurt. There was a new current of understanding, and doubt, and regret. Arthur's eyes softened, becoming gentle and open and inviting, and just like that Merlin found the words rolling off his tongue.

"It's you," he said. "Not destiny, not the stupid prophecies, nothing. Just you. It couldn't be anyone else for me."  
It didn't sound bitter or resentful, just open and honest. He stopped there, because there was nothing to add. And he waited.

Arthur looked away, his throat moving as he swallowed. "You might have said something."

"About what?" Merlin asked. "The magic, or..."

A dark flush rose to Arthur's cheeks. "Either, I suppose."

"What good would have come of that?" Merlin asked, and this time there may have been a little bitterness. "It's not like we could ever –"

Arthur kissed him, harsh and impulsive, cutting him off. It was anything but gentle and romantic, but even when their teeth clashed together and their noses bumped painfully and Arthur backed him up into a tree hard enough to hurt, Merlin was too taken in by the feeling of _Arthur_ to care. Arthur, warm and soft around him, pressed against him and melting into him. Arthur's hands in his hair and Arthur's mouth against his. Arthur who tasted of heat and anger, but who felt like love and bliss and what could have been.

"I hate this," Arthur whispered against Merlin's lips, "I hate it, I hate it, I hate you."

Merlin clutched at him, holding him close, pretending he couldn't hear.

* * *

"Have I done anything alone, since you arrived in Camelot?" Arthur asked afterwards.

Merlin opened his mouth to reply immediately, and found he couldn't think of anything. He remained silent for a few beats, and Arthur sucked in a breath.

"Right," he said. "Always, _always_ you –"

"For _you_," Merlin said quickly, trying to deflect a new wave of anger, "it was only ever for you."

"I know," Arthur said. "That doesn't make it right."

* * *

"You could stay in Mercia," Arthur said. "If you wanted to. Magic is legal here, and Lucia would probably be overjoyed. Bayard would probably even have you in the castle – he knows who you are."

"I could," Merlin said. "I will, if you ask me to."

He waited, eyes on Arthur. Arthur opened his mouth, and closed it again. He swallowed, and shook his head.

"_Arthur_," Merlin breathed, and if there was more hope and joy and reverence in his voice than in Lucia's when she had called him _lord_, well, he didn't really care.

"You're mine," Arthur told him, a plain statement of fact.

"Yours," Merlin agreed. "Always yours, Arthur, you have no idea. Whatever you want."

"And you're magic," he said, eyes on Merlin, trying the word on for size.

"It's yours, too," Merlin promised, but he saw the way Arthur's expression darkened, and knew he wasn't forgiven just yet, that this was too complicated for Arthur to accept so quickly.

"Tell me," Arthur said, sounding so genuinely lost that it clawed at something in Merlin's chest, "what I'm supposed to do now. I don't know, I can't – I don't _know_, Merlin. What am I supposed to do with you?"

"Whatever you want," Merlin said, and meant it.

"But what do _you_ want?" Arthur asked, like it mattered.

"I want – I want to stay with you, to be at your side like I always am."

Arthur looked off into the distance, at where the trees gave way to plains again. "And the law?"

Merlin swallowed. "Whatever you want," he said again. "You're the king."

"And you're my servant," Arthur said, looking at him again, "but it's never that simple, is it?"

Merlin shook his head.

"I don't think I'm meant to make this decision alone," Arthur said. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"I don't want you to think this is all because of destiny –" Merlin began, but Arthur waved at him to be silent.

"But it is, isn't it? All of this – it's destiny. You _are_ destiny."

He didn't sound annoyed, or even angry anymore, just contemplative and slightly awed, like someone had removed a filter from his vision and he was seeing everything in colour instead of shades of grey for the first time.

"This is our destiny," Arthur said, reaching out to grip Merlin's left wrist. "And I'm not meant to face it alone. So you tell me, Merlin – what should I do?"

Merlin felt the wetness on his cheeks before the pricking in his eyes even registered, and he raised his free hand to wipe the tears away, smiling. The serious look in Arthur's eyes didn't fade, though his lips quirked up into a mocking grin.

"I sometimes think you were destined to be a girl," he said, and Merlin gave a tiny, choked laugh.

"Wouldn't be the first time destiny screwed up."

"You have a lot to explain," Arthur told him. "All these years –"

"I know."

"But first..." Arthur's thumb rubbed reassuring circles against the inside of Merlin's wrist. "Tell me what we'll do when we return to Camelot."

Merlin's heart skipped a beat; Arthur probably felt it.

"We?"

"We," Arthur confirmed, and the teasing grin became a full-on smile, warm and affectionate and glorious, and if there was any hesitation in it, Merlin chose not to see it. "You and I and the knights of Camelot."

"You'd let me come back."

"I would. If you chose to."

Merlin tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. "To Camelot. With you."

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Do you want me to change my mind, Merlin?"

Merlin shook his head quickly. "No! No, I can't think of anything I'd rather do."

"Not even lift the ban on magic?"

Merlin looked up at Arthur, then down at Arthur's warm fingers gently wrapped around his wrist, and there was no contest. He didn't even have to think about it. For years and years, he had been choosing Arthur above the right to practise magic freely, every single time.

"Not even that. It doesn't even come close."

"But the prophecy –"

"The prophecy," Merlin said, "isn't what's kept me by your side this long."

"But if I did –"

"Arthur," Merlin said. "I'm never going to ask anything of you. I don't have to. I believe you'll always do what you think is right. That's all I need."

Arthur shook his head, looking amazed. "Bayard was right," he said. "Your loyalty is valuable." He hesitated. "Not just your loyalty."

_Your friendship, too_, Merlin almost heard. It was an invitation, and he closed his eyes and stepped forward, leaning into Arthur's warmth. He could feel Arthur's breath hot against his neck and his touch at his wrist, just above his pulse point.

"Trust me," he said into Arthur's hair, so low Arthur wouldn't have heard him if his lips hadn't been so close to Arthur's ear. "I'll never let you fall. Trust me again, and I swear I'll never let you down again."

Arthur said nothing, but Merlin heard the hitch in his breath and knew he had heard. He didn't dare move to look up at Arthur, didn't want to shatter this moment. He wanted to stay like this forever, leaning against Arthur, not moving, not breathing, just standing there with Arthur surrounding him.

It wasn't forgiveness, but it was something.

A new beginning.


	9. The Lies that Break Us

**I actually wrote this a while ago – it was one of the first I wrote, I think – but I haven't published it because I wasn't sure how I felt about. I'm still not sure, really. It's... different. The style is less flowery and elaborate, and I don't like Arthur in it. I decided to post it anyway because I enjoyed writing it, I've been gone for a while, and I haven't updated in ten days. I'm working on the next chapter right now; it should be up within a reasonable amount of time. And it will be considerably longer than this one, which should be a short, quick read.**

**Please tell me what you think, as I'm _really_ in two minds about this one. You're definitely allowed to hate it.**

* * *

**Summary:** Arthur reacts badly.

* * *

**The Lies That Break Us**

* * *

"You have to know I'd never use it against you or Camelot," Merlin says quietly.

Arthur doesn't answer.

Merlin reaches out to touch his shoulder lightly, but Arthur is faster than he is and in the blink of an eye he is behind Merlin, twisting his arm so painfully that Merlin cannot hold back a whimper.

"You _lied_ to me," Arthur says, and Merlin can't decide whether he sounds more angry or hurt. "All this time, you've been _lying_ to me."

"I – I tried to tell you," Merlin says through clenched teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain even as he tries to loosen Arthur's grip on him. "A dozen times over, Arthur, I _tried_ –"

"Don't call me that."

"It's your _name_ –"

"Do you _know_ how many times I could have had you arrested for the way you speak to me? And I didn't, and now – now I have an even better reason to have you arrested."

"Arth –"

Merlin stops with a pained hiss when he feels Arthur's hand tighten around his arm. His back arches in an attempt to lessen the pain.

"My _lord_," he corrects himself, hating himself for it, "just let me explain –"

"Is that an _order_, Merlin? Because it sounds like a lot like one, but it can't be, can it?"

"Please, sire..."

His voice cracks, and he thinks that's what makes Arthur finally, finally let him go, giving him a hard shove in the back that sends him sprawling forward across the floor. Merlin lays on the cold floor, breathing harshly, not daring to look up at Arthur.

This is it, then. Arthur's reaction. He has imagined it hundreds of times, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

"You once told me you would never lie to me."

There is steel in Arthur's voice, but this time, Merlin recognises it for what it really is. Betrayal and hurt are what animate Arthur, not hatred, and that is why Merlin does not lift himself off the ground.

He speaks to the floor. "I did."

He remembers that incident vividly, as he remembers all the times he has tasted the bitterness of deceit to Arthur, all the times he passed himself off for a fool to keep his secret.

"I'm the one you've been playing for a fool," Arthur says, and Merlin realises he has said that last bit aloud. "All this time. A sorcerer in Camelot, the prince's own manservant! Right under my nose, and I never even suspected it. All of Prince Arthur's exploits – were any of them real? From the moment we met – how many times have you saved my life, got me out of an impossible situation and then let _me_ claim the credit for it?"

"I've lost count."

There's a small silence during which Merlin can practically _see_ the look that crosses Arthur's face as the words register, can almost sense what his prince is thinking – _That many?_ A sharp pain in his lower back makes Merlin arch up, but he doesn't roll away or stand. Arthur has just slammed the hilt of his sword into his back. _Well. It could have been the other end_.

"You complete and utter – is that supposed to be _funny_, Merlin?"

"It's the truth."

"And you expect me to believe you?"

"You always have before."

The sword hilt is jammed into his back again and Merlin bites his lower lip, hard.

"You should have _told_ me. Merlin, you should have told me the truth."

Merlin can't help it; a short, bitter laugh escapes him. If this is the reaction he was always going to get, he's glad he never got around to telling Arthur.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"You would deserve it."

That's not an answer and they both know it.

"Get up," Arthur says harshly.

Merlin hesitates before drawing himself to his feet. He stands with his back to Arthur and can feel the weight of his prince's stare like needles jabbed into the back of his neck.

"Turn around."

Slowly, Merlin does, and he does not get the time to meet Arthur's gaze before Arthur lunges for him, throwing him up against the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. And then the first punch is thrown, catching Merlin in the jaw and forcing his head to snap back. It smarts, but it's not the worst Merlin has ever had; what makes it so painful is that this is _Arthur_.

"I think I could kill you right now," Arthur says, "for being such an _idiot_. Do you have a death wish, Merlin?"

He throws another punch, and Merlin tells himself it could be much worse. Arthur's blows are only half-hearted, intended for Merlin the sorcerer but unwilling to hurt Merlin the manservant. Merlin the friend.

And then there comes _that_ blow, the one that lands on Merlin's temple and is strong enough to knock him to the floor. His vision blurs, and he feels that if this weren't such an important moment, he might lose consciousness (and wouldn't Arthur _love_ that, as more proof that Merlin is really a girl?). Arthur, his face unrecognisable unless Merlin squints, looms above him, and his sword catches the light when he raises it.

He wouldn't have done it.

Merlin knows with every fiber of his being that he _wouldn't _– that despite his anger Arthur is incapable of killing him, the same way he is incapable of putting all his strength behind his punches. But at that moment, with his blurred vision and the pain shooting up his spine whenever he moves and the glint of the sword above him, Merlin lets himself believe that maybe, maybe, maybe Arthur _would_. And he does not think, does not hesitate before uttering the words that will end this madness.

He feels the magic flow out of him, watches as the sword is wrenched from Arthur's hands and thrown to the other end of the room, and sees Arthur stagger back. Stunned amazement gives way to triumph in his expression, a fierce pride that raises the corners of his mouth.

"So you _can_ use magic to defend yourself," he says with satisfaction, as though this was all he wanted to prove. "You _can_ use it against me."

Merlin's vision clears. He pushes himself up onto his knees, then to his feet.

"You owe me your life, many times over," he says brokenly.

There are tears pooling in his eyes, and he knows Arthur can tell.

"Merlin," Arthur says, and then: "Merlin, do you even –"

He cuts himself off and closes his eyes, and it is then that Merlin recognises the expression on his face. It has taken him this long to understand it, because he has so rarely seen it on Arthur.  
Arthur is afraid.

Of _him_.

"Get out," Arthur says softly.

And just like that, Merlin is sacked.

* * *

When Gaius asks what happened when he shows up with his a bruise flowering on his jaw and a stiffness to his every movement, Merlin only says, "I won't be working for Arthur anymore." And Gaius doesn't ask any more questions.

Now he spends his days working with Gaius, instead of mucking out stables and polishing armour. When he crosses Arthur in the castle corridors, he looks away and can feel Arthur's hot stare on the back of his neck. Neither of them ever say a word. It almost hurts to admit that he misses the old times, but whenever he thinks that he only has to recall the bruise on his lower back and the fear in Arthur's eyes to know that all those times were just a lie. A lie that Merlin himself fabricated and kept alive, all this time.

He doesn't blame Arthur. How could he?

* * *

Arthur comes for him a week after the incident.

* * *

He shows up in Gaius' chambers when Gaius is absent. His expression is furious, as though it is still the very day he found out about Merlin's magic, as though he has been holding on to his anger since that day. It is not the same sort of anger, though; not stunned and uncontrollable, but quiet and held in. Threatening.

"I saw you on the steps yesterday," Arthur says tightly.

The steps?

_Oh._ The steps.

"I wasn't thinking," Merlin says. "I tripped, and I couldn't let the potion smash to the ground – Gaius would have had my hide."

"Gaius would have –" Arthur repeats, stunned. "Merlin, you _stupid_ little – do you even realise what they'll _do_ to you if you're found out?"

"I've already been found out. I think I have a pretty good idea of what happens next," Merlin says, standing up from behind the table and closing the book he was taking notes from.

"Do you? Do you really?"

Arthur walks right up to Merlin, sword unsheathed, and spins him around so he is behind Merlin. Merlin half-expects him to push him down to his feet and behead him right there in Gaius' rooms, but of course Arthur doesn't do that.

"_Move_," he says instead, and Merlin can feel the tip of his sword digging into the flesh between his shoulder blades. "Go on – get out."

Merlin steps forward hesitantly, and the pressure on his back disappears. He starts walking down the corridor, hearing Arthur's steps right behind him; hearing, too, the sound his sword makes as it is sheathed. His relief is brief, though, because quickly enough Arthur is right behind him, close enough that his breath is hot on Merlin's neck when he speaks.

"Outside," Arthur says fiercely, and there is another pressure now, digging in between his ribs – a dagger.

Merlin knows – they both know – that he could evade this with his magic, but every fiber of his being refuses to let him do that. He remembers the stunned, _fearful_ look in Arthur's eyes and knows he can't use magic against him again. So Merlin walks without hesitation through the corridors and down the stairs, and all the while Arthur is behind him, dagger in hand, the weapon shielded by his cloak. It's only when they walk down the steps leading to the courtyard that Merlin understands.

The crowd is already waiting, already gleeful. The executioner is running his hand along the edge of his blade, checking its sharpness. Uther stands above the crowd, his expression fierce. The courtyard has been readied for an execution.

Merlin freezes right on the steps, and it takes a painful jab of Arthur's dagger – one that is sure to draw blood, but does that even matter anymore? – for him to continue his descent. He tries to turn his head to look at Arthur, to meet his gaze, but suddenly Arthur's hand is on the back of his neck, his skin cold against Merlin's, and his voice is a fierce whisper when he says, shortly:

"Don't look away."

_Away from what?_ Merlin wants to ask, but he is answered before the question has even been voiced. The crowd has shifted a little, and now he can see the person standing beside the executioner.  
He is around Merlin's own age. His hair is long, flowing down past his shoulders. The state of his clothes makes it obvious that he has spent the night – at the very least – in the dungeons. There is a bruise on his cheek and tear tracks on his dirty cheeks, but he is not weeping now. He is looking up to the skies, his lips moving. Praying.

"He's been accused of sorcery," Arthur says, and Merlin feels sick to his stomach.

He has done this before, but only once: on the day of his arrival in Camelot. Since then, he has kept the memory with him, and every day it has fed his fear of telling Arthur. If Merlin is to die, he doesn't need to see this, as well: a fresh reminder of what awaits him. He's not sure what this is supposed to prove, whether Arthur just wants him to know how he's going to suffer or _what_, but it's working. His entrails are on fire and the only thing holding him upright is Arthur's dagger, angled so it is digging into his ribs from below. He can't _watch_ this. Merlin can hardly even participate in a hunt without wincing – he certainly can't watch this person die for the very crime he himself is guilty of.

"Don't do this, Arthur."

Arthur is silent. The executioner lays a hand on the boys shoulder and pushes him down to his knees, but the boy exposes his neck without further incentive, pulling his hair over his shoulders and bowing his head. He closes his eyes, and Merlin wishes he could do the same.

"Arthur, please, don't, I can't –"

"_Don't look away_," Arthur says again.

The sword is raised.

"My lord."

The crowd is eerily silent.

"_Arthur_ –"

The sword comes down. Merlin watches, unblinking, not even daring to wince, as it is raised again, reddened with blood but not _enough_ blood, apparently, because the head is not severed. The crowd has gone wild. Merlin thinks he can smell the metallic scent of blood in the air, but worse than that is the blood lust of the people around him.

The sword is brought down twice more before the boy's head rolls to the ground, his neck a butchered mess. And all Merlin can see is red – red the blood that stains the ground, red the executioner's sweaty face, red the hot anger he can feel rising up in him. Red the warm blood that he can feel trickling down his side, because somewhere between the first and second chops Merlin jerked back hard enough for Arthur's dagger to slice through his shirt and skin. There is no pain.

The dagger is gone, slipped beneath Arthur's belt. In its place is a warm, solid hand; the same hand that forced Merlin to watch.

"Morgana tried to save him," Arthur says flatly. "She _begged_ my father to have mercy. But Camelot does not have mercy on sorcerers. I tried to defend the boy and I failed. I did _everything_ I could and it wasn't _enough_. I couldn't protect him, do you understand?"

Merlin turns, and this time, Arthur allows him to. Their eyes meet. The hand at Merlin's hip is gentle and warm. And Merlin understands.

Yes, Arthur is angry. Angry that he never knew the truth, angry that Merlin didn't trust him, and maybe even angry that Merlin even has magic at all. And yes, Arthur is scared, but not of Merlin.

"If you die for me," Arthur says, "I will never forgive you."


	10. Beauty in the Ashes of Our Lives

**Special thanks to the reviewers for the last chapter, which you'll remember I wasn't very confident about: you guys are awesome. And a big thank you to **yay**, my unlogged-in reviewer.**

**I'll be away this week in a stranded place with no wi-fi, so again a little while may pass before the next chapter, but I will update as soon as I can.**

**Inspired by the songs **A Thousand Suns **and** One Night Burning** by Kiske and Somerville, because every song reminds me of Merlin these days.**

**Lancelot is still alive because I like him that way. This is also an experimentation in style, with many time-skips and flashbacks. Tell me what you think?**

* * *

**Summary:** Avenging his father's death has brought none of the satisfaction that Arthur hoped it would.

* * *

**Beauty in the Ashes of Our Lives**

* * *

The first day is the hardest.

The scent of ashes and burnt flesh seems to linger in the air, nauseating. It has to be only Arthur's imagination, but the smell follows him everywhere, heavy with memories and regrets. It tears at his throat, choking his lungs and stinging his eyes. Everywhere he goes, he feels alone and bared, as though something fundamental has left him. His shadow no longer walks behind him, and Arthur feels its absence sorely. He wants to be angry, wants to feel satisfied; but in the past couple days he has lost two of the people he cared about the most, and he's not sure which loss is the most painful. Is it his father, who raised him and loved him and who was sinking into insanity, or is it his – his – well, there never really was a word to describe what Merlin was to Arthur.

Arthur feels like a traitor to himself for even daring to think this, to miss the person who has done him so much wrong. It's weak of him to want him back, when he was only a liar, a traitor, and a sorcerer. It's weak of him to want to change what happened just because he can't face the aftermath. His father wouldn't change his mind. His father would say that it had to be done, and he would be right.

And still, avenging his father's death has brought none of the satisfaction that Arthur hoped it would.

* * *

_ Merlin looked up at Arthur, his eyes wide with fear, but he said nothing to defend himself, and it was all Arthur could do not to run him through there and then._

_ The eyes. It had always been the eyes, hadn't it? Something about the colour, the shape seemed familiar, even sunken as they were in that old, wrinkled, ill-tempered face. _Familiar_. Arthur almost wanted to laugh at how blind, how _stupid_ he had been. All along, it had been Merlin, ungracefully aged into an older version of himself. Merlin with the enchanted poultice, Merlin who, disguised as Dragoon, had insulted Arthur and let him know what he really thought of him. Merlin whom Arthur had gone to see for help for his father. Merlin who had _magic_, and Arthur had never seen, had never guessed._

_ "I don't believe it." Arthur backed away from Merlin until his back was pressed to the wall. "You? But I –"_

_ "Arthur –"_

_ "I trusted you!" Arthur shouted, his grief feeding his anger, and it wasn't fear that made him recoil from Merlin, it was disgust. "I trusted you and for years, you lied to me, and now this? _Why_, Merlin? Did you think I would be a better king for your kind? Did you hope I would destroy everything my father fought for?"_

_ "Magic isn't what you think it is –"_

_ "Oh, no," Arthur said. "You're right, it isn't. It's a thousand times more cruel than I ever thought it was. I will never forget this, Merlin. You can _die_ knowing that you destroyed all hope there might have been for your people."_

_ Merlin jerked back as if struck. His mouth fell open, but no words came out, and he looked like such an idiot, a broken-hearted _idiot_, that Arthur had to look away to remind himself that – _Father_._

_ "I'm going to call the guards," he said quietly, feeling drained all of a sudden – drained of his anger, drained of his energy, drained of everything except the all-encompassing pain. "They're going to lock you up in the dungeons. You know that sorcery is a crime, and treason an even greater one. You murdered a man."_

_ "Arthur, it wasn't –"_

_ "If you know what's good for you," Arthur said, "you won't speak to me again."_

_ A sorcerer. Merlin was a sorcerer, and he had used magic hundreds of times, maybe even right in front of Arthur. It was pointless, now, to go through his memories and find the hints, the glaring clues that should have alarmed him. Arthur could only stare down at his father's body, and swear revenge on the man who had killed him in his weakened state. Dragoon.  
Merlin._

* * *

The first day is the day Lancelot disappears, and the day that Arthur realises how much more there is to this than just him and Merlin.

His friend's ashes have hardly been swept up that Lancelot is already gone without so much as a farewell to anyone, not even his new king. Arthur says nothing when he wakes up (from a nightmare that is only as harsh as his reality) to the news that Sir Lancelot's chambers are empty and his horse is gone. Evidently, he left in the middle of the night, leaving behind only his sword, his armour, and his red cloak, carefully folded and placed on his bed. The message could not be clearer, and Arthur wonders bitterly how he never saw it, never realised that Lancelot's allegiance was neither to him nor to Camelot, but to Merlin. It's a betrayal and it stings, but not quite so much as the niggling thought that, well, Uther never really gave Lancelot and the other commoner-knights a reason to respect him. It was never Uther Lancelot served. For a while Arthur thought it might have been him, but evidently he was misguided.

Merlin is entwined with so much more than Arthur thought.

* * *

_ Arthur's gaze travelled over his knights, hard and searching. He trusted these men with his lives, but then, he had trusted Merlin with his life as well. He steeled himself and asked:_

_ "Did any of you know?"_

_ Most of them shook their heads immediately, bristling at the accusation; they were not the ones he suspected. Only a handful of knights had been close to Merlin: the same ones Arthur held in what was perhaps too much esteem. And these knights squared their shoulders and lifted their chins, feeling and resenting the suspicion that rested on their shoulders. Leon, his faithful Leon, did not move, and Arthur knew his honesty would have forced him to admit his guilt if there had been anything to confess. It was a relief, because Arthur didn't think he could have born the betrayal of his oldest, truest knight._

_ And that left – Elyan. Percival. Gwaine. Arthur looked at them each in turn, and knew his gaze rested longest on Gwaine, who had never hidden his affection for Merlin and who challenged Arthur most often. The knight neither denied nor admitted anything; he only set his jaw, and his eyes seemed to say, _And if I did? What are you going to do about it?_ Arthur stepped forward, about to repeat his question, when –_

_ "I did."_

_ Lancelot spoke clearly, unashamedly. Arthur tore his gaze away from Gwaine and stared at him, his most honourable knight, a noble in his heart and soul if not by birth._

_ "You did what?" he asked, because this was _Lancelot_, and Lancelot didn't lie, didn't betray._

_ "I knew Merlin had magic," Lancelot said, stepping forward from the line of knights facing Arthur. His voice carried clearly across the courtyard, and every knight heard his words. "I've known since before your father banished me."_

_ Arthur started. "But that was years ago."_

_ Lancelot inclined his head in acknowledgement._

_ "And you never told me."_

_ Arthur was having a hard time believing it. Lancelot, the embodiment of all that was right, another traitor? Was he that despicable a king, that all those closest to him were liars?_

_ "It was not my secret to share, sire."_

_ "If you cared at all for Camelot, you would have said something. For the sake of our people."_

_ Lancelot's eyes hardened; the look was one Arthur had often seen when Lancelot was on the battlefield, but it had never been directed at him before. "Merlin would never harm the people of Camelot. You know that as well as I do."_

_ "Not her people, only her king, then," Arthur said, feeling anger rise up in him at the mention of Merlin's name. "You concealed something from me which you should not have. Protecting a sorcerer is a criminal offense."_

_ Lancelot raised his head proudly. "If I am to hang for defending a friend, you shall not find any regret in me."_

_ "Lancelot," Leon said sharply. "Hold your tongue."_

_ Lancelot gave him a small, grateful smile, but he shook his head. "Would you stop me from speaking the truth?"_

* * *

It's difficult to ignore Lancelot's absence. Arthur has training with his knights first thing that day, just before the council where he will act as king. It was intended to take his mind off _it_, as there is very little he enjoys more than fighting. Not the wars, not the death and destruction and hatred, but the fierce joy when he crosses blades with one of his own knights, tests their skill and sees how well he taught them; that is unparalleled. Arthur's step is already lighter when he reaches the training grounds, but the chatter that was rising among his men comes to a full stop when they notice him. An uncharacteristic silence fills the air, and Arthur realises – it won't be that easy.

He looks out at them. Most of them look tired, because they attended the execution only a few hours ago at the crack of dawn. Most of them won't even meet Arthur's gaze. Leon does, but there is something shadowed and distant about his eyes. And Gwaine, of course _Gwaine_ looks right at him, and the steel in his eyes is harder than that of his sword. But what throws Arthur is the wet sheen that glistens over his eyes and that he isn't even trying to hide.

Arthur is the one who looks away.

* * *

_ "Arthur, stop and think about what you're doing," Gwaine said, hurriedly walking beside him. "This is Merlin we're talking about!"_

_ Yes, it was Merlin. That was why it hurt so much._

_ "He's your servant, our friend. You have to know he would never harm you. How long have you known him for?"_

_ "Six years," Arthur said._

_ More than six goddamn years, and Merlin had lied to him every single day._

_ Gwaine caught Arthur's elbow, stopping him. "He's yours! How can you be so blind? He's not evil, he's just _Merlin_!" _

_ "He's a sorcerer," Arthur said bitingly. "Sorcery has always merited the capital punishment. He's a traitor –"_

_ "Don't be _stupid_ –"_

_ "Watch your tongue, Sir Gwaine," Arthur snapped, shaking Gwaine off. "I'll remind you I'm king now."_

_ Gwaine's eyes flashed. "You're making the worst mistake of your life, _sire_," he spat. "Don't expect me to just stand by and watch."_

* * *

Gwaine almost spent that night in the dungeons, too.

* * *

At council Arthur's advisers mention something about officially stripping Lancelot of his knighthood and sending men after him – _He has betrayed you, my lord_ – but through the taste of bile on his tongue Arthur finds the strength to protest. The betrayal isn't entirely one-sided, after all. Lancelot _is_ a knight, through and through, even if he was never Arthur's.

Lancelot's departure is a harsh blow for him, but harsher still is the reason for his abandonment. Blame rests heavily on his shoulders whenever he crosses the gaze of one of his knights, and he takes to flinching away from their meaningful looks. Percival is silent, ever silent, but somehow his eyes manage to convey the words he won't say, and Arthur begins to avoid him outside of practices. Besides Gwaine, Percival is the worst. Gwaine is aggressive and blunt, but Percival is quiet, and because he never says _anything_, Arthur can only guess what he's thinking.

It makes him angry. He knows he's just drawing on his anger as a defense mechanism, but he can't be bothered to try to check himself, because – why is everyone blaming _him_? They all know what Merlin did. Arthur _saw_ him do it, and the condemnation wasn't unfair. It was all Merlin could have expected, being what he was. It was justice.

So Arthur is angry, and his knights take to avoiding him just as he avoids them as much as possible. It's a sad start to a new king's reign when his soldiers can't stand to be in the same room as him for any longer than absolutely necessary, but Arthur doesn't even care. He never wanted to be king this early.

When Arthur is alone, he dreams. Even his daydreams are haunting nightmares and at night, the memories of that day and its consequences return. They don't keep him from sleeping, but instead pull him into a fitful sleep, punctuated by dreams that leave him pale and breathless, his heart racing.

* * *

_Sitting in a chair in his room, looking out his window. Gwen, her hands sliding over his shoulders reassuringly, her touch firm and comforting. "Oh, _Arthur_. I'm so sorry."_

_ Arthur blinked fiercely, holding back the tears he couldn't allow to spill over. Why did he want to cry? Was it for the father he had lost, or for the friendship that had never been?_

_ "How could he?" he asked brokenly, and there he had his answer. "He was defenseless, and he just killed him!"_

_ Gwen tensed behind him, her hands going still. "You don't know that for sure."_

_ "I was _there_, Gwen. I saw it. He used magic, and my father died."_

_ "Maybe something went wrong." Gwen sounded unsure, as though she were trying to convince herself of the fact. "Maybe he didn't mean to –"_

_ "Of course he meant to do it – a sorcerer has every reason to despise my father."_

_ "But it's Merlin we're talking about."_

_ "And he's a sorcerer." _

_ Arthur set his jaw. If Morgana's betrayal had hurt him, Merlin's was _destroying_ him. _

_ "He lied to us all, Gwen. And for that, he's going to pay."_

_ He heard Gwen's sharp intake of breath and turned his head to look at her. She looked stricken, her lips slightly parted in shock. She was beautiful._

_ "You can't mean... You've already imprisoned him!"_

_ Arthur rose from his chair, shaking her hands off his shoulders. "He _killed_ a king, and he is a sorcerer. He has to die."_

_ "No!" Gwen's eyes were wide and desperate. "He can't – Arthur, please, you can't."_

_ "But I can." Alarm coursed through him as he watched Gwen take a step back. "Why shouldn't I? He's a traitor and a murderer. I can't let him go, and I will never forgive what he did to me."_

_ "No," Gwen said again, her voice shaking. "No, there – there has to be an explanation. I _know_ Merlin would never do that, and you do, too. Arthur, listen to yourself, you have to know this is crazy –"_

_ "I _saw_ him, Gwen. And I'll never be able to unsee it." Arthur let his gaze stray from Gwen's face to the bed, remembering how his father had lain, defenseless, dying, on his own bed. "He has __to die."_

_ "He's your _friend_!"_

_ "And he betrayed me."_

* * *

Gwen, his love, the woman he planned to one day take as queen. (And that day could be soon now that Arthur is king, but at the same time it's further away than it has ever been.)

The first day, Gwen doesn't even show up at the castle. Arthur notices. It isn't a childish tantrum, it's grief, and it's better to have her keep to herself than to see her openly defy him in front of the court, or cry open tears for a traitor to the kingdom. That's what Arthur tries to tell himself, at least.

The day after Lancelot's departure, she returns, carrying out her normal duties. Arthur catches sight of her several times, but can never seem to approach her. Her eyes are rimmed with red, but she stands rigidly and proudly, and her expression is so studiously blank it is difficult to remember that she was not born a noble, that she is only a strong and passionate serving girl whom Arthur fell in love with.

She is also the woman Lancelot loved first, and a part of her can never be Arthur's. She says nothing about it, but Arthur knows that Lancelot's departure hits her as hard as it does him. He has faith in the woman he loves, but he isn't blind to the feelings his knight still holds for her, and he knows that Gwen holds Lancelot in high regard. Her silence unsettles him, because in it he can read the reproach she won't voice aloud. _You murdered one friend and drove the other away_. For a week Arthur bears her silence, and for a week Gwen is as regal as any queen – strong in the face of adversity, reserved in her judgment and clever in her dealings with Arthur.

On the seventh day, Gwen leaves with as little fanfare as Lancelot did, and it's easy enough for Arthur to guess she has gone after him. He doesn't order anyone after them, and doesn't bother to try to silence the gossip that ensues.

* * *

_ A quiet summer day, warm and lazy, night taking its sweet time falling. Gwen by his side on the balcony, watching the sun lower itself over the horizon, the sunshine making her face glow. There was a small, peaceful smile on her lips, as though this sufficed to make her happy: watching the sun set on Camelot._

_ "You're going to rule a beautiful kingdom, Arthur. And when you do, I'll be proud to be a servant in your castle."_

_ Arthur frowned, not missing the distance she was putting between them. "You don't have to be a servant," he said, his voice low. He stepped closer to her, reaching out to lightly touch her hand. "You could be queen."_

_ Gwen tried to laugh it off, but there was a sadness in her eyes. "Don't, Arthur. Please." _

_ "I mean it."_

_ Gwen looked away, back at the city displayed beneath them. Her hair fell forward, shielding her eyes from him._

_ "I'm no princess, Arthur."_

_ She sounded regretful, but Arthur didn't miss the underlying note of hope in her tone, and it gave him the courage to go on._

_ "I don't care about that," he said, bringing her hand to his mouth and brushing his lips against her knuckles. "You are much more than what you were born, Guinevere."_

_ Gwen turned to face him again, a sad smile curving her lips. "You know it can't be."_

_ "But it can," Arthur insisted. "When the time is right, you'll see."_

_ The reddened sun faded beneath the horizon; up in the darkening sky, Arthur caught sight of a star, bright and hopeful._

_ "One day, we _will_ rule together."_

* * *

Arthur's coronation takes place fifteen days after his father's funeral. It's a quiet affair, considering. Normal protocol would have the coronation delayed for at least a couple months after the funeral, and envoys sent to allied kingdoms to announce it, but times are troubled and Morgana is still a very real threat to the kingdom's stability. So the coronation takes place as soon as possible, and Arthur feels the weight of a king's crown upon his head sooner than he would have wished.

Arthur has always known he would one day be king, but he never imagined it would be this painful, this lonely to rule. He has lost everything and everyone he cared about, and he stands alone, with only his own strength to draw upon where before he has always had his father's guidance, Morgana's friendship, Gwen's faith, his knights' loyalty, Merlin's –_ Merlin's nothing, apparently_. Arthur is without a queen by his side, without a friend to count on, and even, if he's honest with himself, without his knights' honesty to rely on.

In a way, the guilt-tripping is working, and he is starting to think that all of this – his knights' looks, Lancelot's betrayal, Gwen's abandonment – is a just punishment for having sent a friend to the pyre. As though Merlin didn't deserve it.

As though seeing Merlin burn wasn't punishment enough, as though any of them will ever be able to forget the sight or the stench.

* * *

_ Merlin was executed at dawn.  
It was more impressive that way. Executions by fire were almost always carried out at dawn or dusk, when it was dark enough for the fire to attract all the attention, but light enough to see if the prisoner attempted something. And Arthur had known almost immediately that he would see Merlin die by fire. A slow burn, drawn-out and painful, just as his years of lies had been._

_ Merlin was led to the pyre with his hands bound in front of him, flanked by guards. His head was held high, not out of pride but because his eyes were scanning the crowd, looking for someone. He looked tired and his clothes were dirty; he'd spent the night in the dungeons._

_ He looked like Merlin._

_ His eyes landed on Gwen, who was standing by the knights, and a small, reassuring smile pulled the corners of his lips upwards as he looked at her. Gwen was teary-eyed, but quiet; her hand was closed tightly around Lancelot's sleeve. Not too far off stood Gaius, who was also solemn and quiet, his eyes fixed on Merlin as though waiting for something._

_ The guards bound Merlin to the stake, and he seemed hardly perturbed, not even putting up the semblance of a struggle. Arthur's eyes were open for any attempt at magic, but Merlin said nothing and did nothing. It was only when the executioner stepped forward with the torch that his eyes flared gold, and the fire was extinguished with a small _whoosh_. Arthur felt his fingers tighten around the railing of the balcony from where he was presiding over the execution. Merlin looked up; their eyes met._

_ "Again," Arthur ordered._

_ The executioner, clearly spooked, took some time to light his torch again. As he lowered it to the pyre, the fire sputtered weakly and died out again. The executioner looked up at Merlin, fear evident in his expression, and still Merlin made no move to free himself. He only stared at Arthur, an unspoken challenge in his eyes._

_ Arthur slowly, wordlessly turned away and disappeared from the balcony. He headed down the stairs, through the corridor, and back outside. He pushed past the executioner and picked up his discarded torch, raising it so it was level with his eyes._

_ "Light it," he told Merlin._

_ The fire flared to life, and without a second's hesitation, Arthur tossed the torch into the pyre, watching with satisfaction as the fire caught and spread._

* * *

Gwaine becomes even worse after the coronation. He hasn't cried in front of Arthur since the first day, but he drinks even more than he used to, he only shows up at half the practices, and he never misses an occasion to defy Arthur. Arthur bears it, because he knows Gwaine is one of his best knights, and maybe because he has accepted he deserves the harsh treatment. And if Gwaine seems particularly aggressive when sparring with Arthur, and if his sword slices a little too deep into Arthur's thigh, Arthur doesn't call him on it. He only winces and cedes the fight to Gwaine before having the wound bandaged, and pretends he doesn't see the savage look on Gwaine's face. Savage but not satisfied, never satisfied, because it's not revenge Gwaine is after. He can never be satisfied so long as Merlin is dead, and no matter how much he hurts Arthur, nothing will bring _him_ back.

Gwaine is the only one who ever speaks to Arthur about Merlin, and maybe that's another reason Arthur keeps him. He finds himself seeking the knight out often in the evenings. Despite himself, he needs to hear what Gwaine has to say, because with him Gwaine is honest and blunt the way none of the others are. And in the evening, Gwaine can always be found in a tavern.

This evening, six days after Arthur's coronation, is no exception. Gwaine is getting progressively drunk, which is a difficult feat considering how well he can hold his alcohol. His tongue is loosened and he lies half-slumped in a chair, one arm propped up on the table, his hand absent-mindedly tugging at the chain around his neck. Next to the gold ring and the crescent moon that he never goes without, there is now a new pendant: a small bird, roughly carved in dark wood, its wings outstretched as if in flight. The only trace of embellishment are its eyes, which shine bright gold.

Arthur doesn't need to ask what, or whom, it represents.

Gwaine catches him looking and tucks the necklace inside his shirt again as though to protect it. "Merlin was your servant," he says, his words slurring together. "He'd've done anything for you, handed you the world on a silver platter if you asked for it. And for that you had him killed."

"He had _magic_," Arthur says. _He killed my father._

"And it was yours from the day he met you! Is it possible that you've been so _blind_ you don't see all that he did for you –"

"I never asked him for anything!"

"Without him you'd already be dead! You'll probably never realise how much you owe him, because he'll never get the chance to tell you, will he? But he saved your life, Arthur, even if you can't see it."

"Well why didn't _you_ save him, if he meant that much?"

"Don't you think we tried?" Gwaine says, another betrayal on top of countless others, and Arthur wonders how many more he can bear. "We went to the cells that night."

Arthur doesn't need to ask which night he means. He doesn't need to tell Gwaine, _That's treason, you weren't allowed_. But he wants to ask, _How many? How many of you were willing to risk that much for Merlin?_

"Merlin told us not to worry, that it would be fine. He didn't think you would go through with it," Gwaine says, pronouncing each word clearly now, as though his anger and grief have sobered him up. "None of us did. I thought he had a plan – we all did. He could have escaped the fire, I know he could have. But he didn't, because _you_ had ordered it. Because you lit the fire. And we didn't help him, because he told us not to."

Arthur flinches. _We_ again. How many of his knights disapproved of his decision, how many wanted to defy him?

"He lied to me," he says defensively, "and he used magic. He knew what he was getting into. He knew the risks."

"And he trusted you!" Gwaine shouts. "He trusted your friendship, he believed you would give him a chance if you ever found out! But you didn't. You didn't even let him explain, and now he's gone and _it's your fault_."

There it is, plain and unforgiving. The accusation that Arthur has been waiting to hear for weeks, but that never came. It's finally here, and it hurts more than he could have imagined.

* * *

_ Merlin had never expected Arthur to go through with it. It was obvious in the way his eyes widened and all the colour seemed to drain from his face. For a second that seemed frozen in time, he could only look down at the fire he had lit, dancing threateningly below him, the orange flame reflected in the depths of his eyes; then he raised his head and looked Arthur right in the eye. He did not, for a second, look away, not even when the flames leapt forward and began to lick at the stake, at his clothes. Not when the heat and the pain had to have become unbearable, not when he should have screamed and cried for mercy. He only stared at Arthur, his eyes golden, whether with magic or because of the fire Arthur couldn't know._

_ Arthur forced himself to watch, never letting his eyes stray from Merlin's face. Their gazes were locked, holding each other in place, each daring the other to look away first. A challenge Arthur was determined to win, no matter how painful it was. He allowed his hatred, his fear, his anger to consume him, trying to gain some vindication, some satisfaction from seeing Merlin burn, but –_

_ Merlin twisted on the stake, throwing his head back, his teeth gritted; at the same moment, the flames leapt up and fully hid him from view, so that Arthur could only distinguish a dark silhouette, writhing against the bounds that held him. Somewhere, someone screamed in anguish; it wasn't Merlin._

_ After that, it was over very quickly._

* * *

"It's your fault," Gwaine repeats mercilessly. "Someone has to say it, and Merlin can't. He wouldn't even if he could. You're his fucking _Arthur_, he would have done anything for you. He _let_ you kill him, Arthur. Don't ever kid yourself that it was anything else; he only died because he _allowed_ you to kill him. Because it was you. It was always you. Do you know what he told us, when he was in the cells waiting for dawn? _'It'll be all right. I have faith in him._' And he meant _you_, Arthur. He meant you."

Arthur swallows. "You can't just –"

"Do you know he called your name when he was burning?" Gwaine asks, disgust clear in his voice. "Did you hear it, or were you too busy making sure he didn't try to escape? We all saw how you watched, but did you hear him cry out? Even as he was dying, it was _Arthur_, it was only ever about you. He's never done anything that wasn't for you."

Arthur's throat tightens, and again he swallows with difficulty past the knot. "I know – I _know_."

"Do you really?" Gwaine asks, and looks at Arthur intently.

Arthur looks away.

"I don't think you understand. You sent him to be burnt at the stake, and when that wasn't enough you had to light the pyre yourself. That's why he didn't stop it, you know; why he didn't escape. He'd already lost everything when you decided you wanted to see him die."

"Stop it," Arthur says, his voice cracking. "That's an order, Gwaine; _stop_."

"Why should I?" Gwaine asks. "I don't have to listen to you anymore. You're not my king."

Arthur jerks back so sharply he almost knocks his chair over. _What?_

"Merlin was the first friend I ever made," Gwaine says quietly, sounding a lot more sober than he is as he looks down into his goblet. "I never thought I'd see the day where I had to choose between you two, but I know whom I've chosen."

He tips his goblet back and downs the remainders of his drink in one go, then lets the goblet clunk down on the table and looks Arthur in the eye.

"You chose this, Arthur. Not me, not Merlin, not anyone else. It was you."

He stands and walks out of the tavern, and Arthur watches him leave, knowing it's the last time he sees Gwaine. Gwaine who was Merlin's friend before he was Arthur's knight.

His world is falling apart, piece by piece. How did he never realise how much of his life was entwined with Merlin's? First Lancelot, then Gwen – Gwen his heart, his life, his soul. Of course Gwen. And now Gwaine as well, and how many more will follow? Arthur only has to look at how Gaius has stopped looking him in the eye and never speaks to him unless absolutely necessary to guess whom the next one to leave will be. And after that... After that it is anyone's guess.

Arthur is king of Camelot, but without Merlin the kingdom is falling apart from the inside. And maybe Arthur is, too.

* * *

_ Until the end, everything felt surreal, as though it hadn't really happened. Everyone had seen Merlin's eyes flash gold in those final moments, and Arthur knew the only reason no one had interfered was that they all believed Merlin would save himself. Even Arthur believed it. Things only became real when the fire died out, a long time later, and revealed what Arthur had wrought: a pile of ashes and the skeletal remains of what had once been Merlin. There was a moment of stunned disbelief, and then –_

_ A scuffle, a shout as Gwaine wrestled out of the firm grip Percival had on his shoulder. He was on his knees by the pyre in seconds, reaching out to drag trembling fingers across the ashes, denial clearly written across his face._

_ "No, no – you idiot, you were supposed to escape –"_

_ He threw his head back, looking at the sky, as though believing that Merlin would appear out of nowhere with a grin and a joke. Arthur looked up as well, but nothing came, nothing happened. It was over._

_ A scream tore from Gwaine's throat. A terrible, unearthly silence hung over the rest of the gathered crowd, and Arthur could meet no one's eyes. He saw Gwen crying, her face hidden in Lancelot's cloak. His knights were still and quiet, their shoulders stiff. Gaius' mouth had dropped open, and his old face was drained of all colour, as though Arthur had stabbed him in the heart and killed him as surely as he had killed Merlin. _

* * *

For a while Arthur is genuinely worried about Gaius' health. He doesn't dare inquire after him, though; not when it's obviously all Gaius can do to even stand in the same room as him. They only speak when it's unavoidable, and Arthur watches with alarm as his physician seems to fade away before his eyes, becoming more wrinkled, more stooped, less reactive. He realises the extent of what he has done to Gaius – taken away the one he considered his son, his reason to live. And he thinks he can't bear to be the cause of Gaius' death, too. So he does speak to Gaius, eventually, to tell him that he should retire.

"You've worked as court physician for many years," Arthur says as delicately as he can, feeling awkward and guilty. "I think it may be time to consider something else, for the sake of your health. A retreat to the countryside, perhaps."

Gaius straightens up, his nostrils flaring. "Are you sacking me, sire?"

"No!" Arthur says. "No, of course not. I just thought, your health –"

"Out of the two of us, I believe I am best equipped to judge the state of my health," Gaius says sharply. "It is not my health that is broken, sire. It is something else entirely, for which there is no remedy. A trip outside of Camelot would not help. Besides," he adds after a pause, his tone softened, "I could not leave. He would want me to stay here, with you."

Arthur flinches, and Gaius doesn't miss it. He turns away and picks up a bottle of green, viscous liquid.

"Unless you intend to sack me, I will continue to heal the people of Camelot," he says, swirling the potion around. "And if you do sack me, I shall only retreat as far as the castle walls."

"Gaius –" Arthur begins, wanting to say _Thank you_, except it would be wrong, because it isn't him Gaius is doing this for.

He leaves without saying anything more, a strange regret settling deep inside his chest instead of the relief he should feel at the news that Gaius would not leave him. Of course Gaius _knew_ about Merlin's magic, but Arthur has not the heart to call the old man on it. Still, there is no trace of the deep, long-lasting fondnesss in Gaius' eyes now, and like Leon, it seems that nothing more than honour and loyalty keep him at the citadel – no love, certainly, for his king; it has been washed away as surely as Merlin's ashes and bones were swept away once the fire stopped burning. Arthur knows Gaius was loyal to his father, but in this, he has sided with Merlin.

Does it make it any less unforgivable that Arthur is starting to feel the same way?

* * *

One evening, less than two months after Arthur's coronation, two knights are conspicuously absent at the table. Arthur notices it immediately, but does not comment. He sees his men throwing surreptitious glances at the two empty seats and struggles to pretend nothing is out of ordinary. Afterwards, though, he draws Leon aside. His lead knight meets his gaze calmly and waits.

"Percival?" Arthur asks, bracing himself.

Leon gives him a long, appraising look; Arthur feels his spirits sink.

"He's leaving."

"And Elyan?"

Leon says nothing, which is answer enough. Arthur turns on his heel.

"You won't be able to change their minds, you know." Leon speaks softly, but his tone is heavy with weariness.

Arthur's spine stiffens. "I have to try."

* * *

_The memory is faded, uncertain, unimportant until today. A sunny day, too hot to expect his knights to train without expecting some irritation. None of them were wearing armour. Gwaine and Elyan had already sparred and were now sitting in the grass, drinking water and exchanging good-natured but teasing comments. Arthur was angry; does it matter why anymore? Something about his father. Merlin was in full armour, and Arthur was hitting away at him. Merlin kept stepping back, faltering beneath the blows, and Arthur knew this wasn't the sort of training that was right. He needed someone who would fight back, give him a challenge; but this, right now, was what he needed to vent his anger. _

_ Maybe he struck a little harder, maybe he struck a little higher. Merlin fell, and Arthur froze._

_ Then the memory is clearer, sharper, because it matters._

_ "Damn." Percival's voice. _

_ He dropped his sword, knelt by Merlin's side and removed the helmet. Merlin looked dazed. Percival touched his face gently. _

_ "Are you all right?"_

_ "Just – just a little dizzy," Merlin said, not moving from where he lay flat on his back. "My head's spinning."_

_ "Does it hurt?"_

_ Merlin propped himself up on his elbows unsteadily. "It'll go away."_

_ Percival held out a hand. "Can you stand?"_

_ "I think so."_

_ "Oh, come on, Merlin," Arthur said, irritated. He had been wearing _armour_, for God's sake. "Don't be such a girl."_

_ Percival didn't appear to have heard him, but the glare Merlin shot his way was poisonous. He accepted Percival's hand and stood up. Percival led him to the edge of the training ground. Arthur followed them with his eyes, not missing the way Merlin leaned on Percival easily, naturally._

* * *

Arthur finds them in Elyan's rooms. A small bundle lies in a corner, obviously full of Percival's personal belongings. Percival seems to be helping Elyan pack. They both freeze when Arthur enters, like thieves caught red-handed.

"Were you even going to tell me?" Arthur's sharp voice cuts through the air like a knife. "Or were you going to slink away like criminals instead of knights, like cowards instead of honest men?"

The insult to their honour makes them both bristle, but while they straighten up and look Arthur right in the eye, neither says anything to deny the accusation.

"I see." Arthur closes his eyes briefly, trying to quell his anger and hurt. "And you thought I would just let you?"

"You let Gwaine."

Percival sounds resentful, and Arthur remembers how close he was to the other knight. Always playing jokes on each other, pairing up to pull pranks on others. Gwaine could get Percival to open up and relax in a way that even Lancelot, who has known him longest, couldn't.

"You're going after him?" Arthur asks.

Percival shakes his head. "If he doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

"You only have to go through every tavern in the kingdom," Arthur says.

Percival smiles, but it's faint and barely there at all. Arthur only sees it because he was hoping for it.

"He's left the kingdom."

"You're in contact with him?" Arthur says sharply.

Percival shakes his head. "I just know. He's used to travelling. He's been banished before."

"I didn't banish him."

"It's as good as," Percival says, "even if it is self-imposed."

"And where will you go?" Arthur asks. "If not with him..."

Percival shrugs. "Where fate leads me, I suppose. Where I find a place I can live in."

"You can live here," Arthur says, looking at each of them in turn. "Even if you don't want to be knights, you can still _stay_. Camelot is your home."

"I can't," Elyan says, looking pained. "You know why. I lost a lot of time with Gwen when I was – away – and I don't want to go through that again. That's why I'm going. To look for her."

Arthur nods, because this he can understand. "I would do the same in your position."

He turns to Percival, who doesn't look like he wants to talk about it.

"I still think you'll be a good king, Arthur," he says after a beat, and it's small comfort, when Arthur is realising he isn't good enough to earn his people's love and loyalty. "And if ever Camelot has need of us, we'll come back."

"Camelot," Arthur repeats. "What about me? What if _I_ have need of you –"

"You have other knights."

Knights who weren't that close to Merlin. Knights who believe magic is evil. The knights who were loyal to Uther, and not Arthur. Arthur thinks of those knights, wondering whether he will be able to build with any of them the friendship that united the Knights of the Round Table.

Percival holds out a red bundle in front of him; it takes Arthur a moment to recognise it as his cloak, folded into a neat square, the golden dragon arranged so that it rests on top, glaring accusingly at Arthur. Arthur recoils from it.

"Keep it."

Percival shakes his head slowly. "I am grateful that you gave me the opportunity to become a knight." He presses the cloak into Arthur's hands. "But I no longer have the right to wear this. I can't follow you the way a knight should."

"You've been a fine knight," Arthur says. "You've more than earned the right. Keep it, in memory of –"

Percival closes Arthur's fingers around the cloak. "I won't," he said.

Not _I can't_.

_I won't_.

Arthur accepts the cloak, fingers tracing the smooth red fabric, trying to remember the last time a knight relinquished his knighthood so blatantly. Even Lancelot was quiet about it, but this... In the days when his father was king, Arthur doesn't think a knight had ever just _quit_. Percival, a commoner whom Arthur himself knighted and valued above many others, and now...

Just how deep do his errors in judgment run? How many more betrayals will he have to face?

"When do you leave?" he asks, pressing the cloak to his chest, trying to find warmth in it to fight the cold that is seeping into his bones, his blood, his heart.

"As soon as we're ready," Elyan replies. "Arthur..."

Arthur raises a hand, not wanting to hear the explanation or apology that his knight has to offer. "If ever you want to come back... There will always be a place for you in Camelot. Both of you."

Elyan nods seriously. "Thank you, sire."

Percival says nothing, and Arthur knows he won't come back.

* * *

It is never said in so many words, but Arthur can tell he has failed them all. His kingdom, his people, his knights, his friends – they will never look at him in the same way. Every gaze is now shadowed with blame, and pain, and regrets. Every word, every touch, every glance is heavy with the weight of reproach, as though everyone agrees that he did the wrong thing by upholding the law and executing a sorcerer.

He has lost his best knights. Of the handful that he valued above all others, only Leon remained, because nothing could tear Leon away from his king. Leon who stands by him faithfully, and who is Arthur's only comfort in the evenings when everyone else has retired to their chambers. Arthur asks Leon to stay, and Leon does, sitting straight and tall as Arthur slumps in a chair across him, weary and lost. They are in the dining hall, alone, and a heavy silence lies between them. It takes several minutes for Arthur to break it with a soft sigh. Leon looks at him, his expression concerned.

"I never thought it'd be like this." Arthur allows his head to sink in his hands. "I never thought they'd all leave when I needed them the most."

Leon is silent.

"You think I deserve it," Arthur says accusingly, raising his head again.

Leon looks into Arthur's eyes the way scarcely anyone will nowadays. "You know I'll never leave."

"But you can't fault the others for wanting to, can you?"

* * *

_ In the last few moments before the flames hid him from view, Merlin's lips moved and he spoke. It wasn't the cry Gwaine would remind Arthur of later; the last, tortured call of "Arthur! Arthur!" That came later, when Merlin was no longer visible. But as Arthur watched, Merlin said something, something Arthur couldn't possibly hear because he spoke softly, his words snatched away by the crackle of the fire and the wind._

_ He could have sworn he saw Merlin's lips forming the words, _I forgive you_._

* * *

Arthur needs someone by his side, and shortly after his coronation his uncle Agravaine returns to court, offering his counsel and support. Arthur accepts it gratefully, for though Agravaine isn't a friend, he _is_ a family member, and Arthur has precious few of those left. He has known Agravaine since he was a child, and trusts him. So when they catch Caerleon, who is threatening Camelot with his army, Arthur listens to Agravaine's advice and kills him. And later, when Caerleon's widow declares war against Camelot, Arthur doesn't blame Agravaine. But that doesn't make the situation they face any less dire, and Arthur's heart is heavy as he gathers his men and leads them forward to battle. None of them have the heart to fight in a war which their king has precipitated at a time when Camelot seems to be falling apart. And that's why Arthur proposes the deal he does to Queen Annis: a one on one fight, two champions to defend the rights of their respective kingdoms. Arthur himself, fighting the war he has brought upon Camelot.

Arthur keeps Leon close during the last few hours of the evening before the battle. The two armies are within an hour's distance of each other, but they have both set up camp to wait for daylight. Arthur lets his men occupy themselves, but Leon he needs by his side.

"It wasn't necessary, sire," Leon says from where he is sitting on the bedroll he has brought to Arthur's tent. "We would have won the battle."

"Maybe," Arthur says. "But how many would have died? It's better this way. Our men did not seek this fight out. I did."

"And if you lose?" Leon asks. "Will that make anything better? We cannot give up half of Camelot to Queen Annis."

"Then we must hope that I will win."

"At least let me take your place, sire. You can't risk everything for the sake of your pride. You _can't_ die."

Arthur looks at the red that drapes the inside of his tent. Red as the blood that he has spilt, red as the cloak Percival handed back to him.

"I am not doing this for my pride."

"Maybe not," Leon says quietly. "But by punishing yourself, you risk punishing the whole of Camelot. Remember that, Arthur. Camelot needs you."

"Camelot needs a king who doesn't put her people at risk." Arthur looks Leon in the eye. "It is done, Leon. Tomorrow I fight. Would you be the one to help me with my armour?"

Leon hesitates, obviously desiring to continue the argument. He seems to struggle with himself for a minute, but at last he lowers his gaze.

"You know it would be an honour, sire."

* * *

Leon's sure hands deftly strap Arthur into his armour with an assurance and an ease that remind Arthur of Merlin, except that Leon's fingers fly over Arthur without leaving the firm, reassuring touch that Merlin always pressed into his shoulder before a battle.

"Be careful," Leon says, checking one of the straps around Arthur's arm. "You've never seen this man fight. Go slow at first, to get a feel for his style, before –"

"Leon."

Leon lets his hands fall to his sides and takes a step back. "Right."

"This isn't my first fight," Arthur reminds him.

"Take care that it isn't your last."

Arthur looks at him, at the man who has fought beside him in every one of his battles. He takes in Leon's serious eyes and the way his brow furrows in concern.

"I will."

* * *

Arthur has never been one to equate size with power. He has defeated many opponents both taller and broader than he, because he had the skill and the speed to beat them. Percival's strength always impressed him, but without his swordsmanship it would not always have been enough against a real threat.

Still, when Arthur lays eyes on Queen Annis' champion, he has to suppress a shiver of apprehension. _Tall_ and _broad_ are both euphemisms. He wears only leather, which could even give him the advantage of speed over Arthur, who is weighted down by his armour. And he looks like he could snap Arthur's neck with his bare hands.

Arthur slowly breaks ranks with his men, stepping forward into the gap between the two armies and watching as Derian walks up to him. Arthur lets his gaze travel all the way up to Derian's face, where a threatening grin that bares too many teeth greets him. He unsheathes his sword, testing the balance of it, his eyes dropping to Darian's hands. _Your sword is an extension of your arm_.

Derian's first swing is swift and strong, not slow and testing the way Arthur usually begins a fight. Arthur blocks it, bracing himself for the strain on his arms as their swords clash together. He dances back almost immediately to give himself time to think, but Derian is in front of him again in seconds, forcing him to fight.

Arthur is in the passive position, only defending himself from Derian's attacks, unable to find the time to launch an offensive of his own. He moves as quickly as he can, but Derian's strength wears him down. One particularly strong blow sends Arthur to his knees, his legs giving way. He hears a collective gasp from his army behind him but doesn't allow himself to look back; instead he rolls away from Derian's blade slicing down towards him and reaches up to nick the side of Derian's face. The other man's arm rises to his cheek immediately, feeling for blood; rage darkens his expression as Arthur takes advantage of his distraction to stand again and steady himself, a triumphant grin spreading across his expression. He can do this. He only has to be reactive enough.

Arthur raises his sword, ready to parry whatever Derian will throw at him; but suddenly the sword is heavy in his hands, and it slips from his fingers to the ground with a dull _thud_ that is far from natural. Alarm runs through Arthur as he bends down, fingers closing around the hilt, but he can't lift it. It's as though its weight has been multiplied by ten, but Arthur can detect no visible change in the weapon. His arms aren't _that_ weary.

He ducks away from Derian's next swing, but doesn't back up, unwilling to leave his sword. He tries to throw a punch, and his knuckles crash into Derian's jaw, but Derian's sword catches him on the arm and he cries out, pulling back. Again he tries to reach his sword, but it's still unliftable. He looks up, eyes wide, as Derian moves to strike again –

An opening. For some reason, Derian freezes, as though hesitating; Arthur can't afford to hesitate, so he throws himself forward and rams his shoulder into Derian with enough strength to make them both fall to the ground. They roll around for several confused, panicked moments, both scrabbling and kicking and trying to get a good grip on Derian's sword; then Derian, who is bigger and stronger, manages to stand, delivering a good kick in Arthur's ribs to make sure he stays down. He raises his sword. Arthur watches the sunlight catch on the silvery metal of the blade. He knows he is about to die, and thinks, _Merlin_.

He doesn't close his eyes, so he sees what happened next.

The sword falls from Derian's hand, arching away from him in a way that is surely not natural before finally dropping to the ground. Derian looks as stunned as Arthur feels, but Arthur recovers first, lunging for the sword. Once he's on his feet, he strikes Derian across the back, making him fall to the ground. Arthur raises his sword, and the situation is reversed.

His sword catches and reflects a flash of gold, and Arthur twists around to see where it came from, hope flaring in his chest; but there is no one, nothing there that he didn't expect to see, and Derian is still at his feet, incapacitated, waiting for the death blow. But hasn't Arthur already spilt enough blood?

He drives his sword into the dirt by Derian's head.

* * *

Gold.

He didn't imagine it. There was a flash of gold, when the sword was in his hand. Gold as the swirl that washed over Merlin's blue eyes when he used magic. And maybe it was a dream, maybe it's an impossible, foolish hope, but Arthur knows. Deep inside, somehow, he feels it. He isn't alone; maybe he never truly was. _He_ is still there, protecting him from the shadows.

On the ride back to Camelot, Arthur thinks. Didn't he notice Gaius looked more alive these last few days? Wasn't he surprised when the man actually smiled at him the day he asked for a potion to soothe his sore throat? Didn't he think it strange when that man, Julius Borden, was found tied, gagged, and disoriented just outside the vaults? It all _means_ something, it all adds up to –

_Merlin_.

* * *

_Arthur at his desk, facing a blank scroll. The sun shining through the window, making him want to go outside and do something, anything. Just not this. _

_ The door opened._

_ "Not now, Merlin," Arthur said without even looking up._

_ "Do you recognise my footsteps or something?"_

_ Arthur scowled. "Anyone else would _knock_."_

_ "Ah, right. I'll have to work on that." A small pause. "Well, don't you want to know why I'm here?"_

_ "No."_

_ "I suppose I'll just leave, then... and not show you this."_

_ The sound of paper unfolding. Arthur's head snapped up, and Merlin met his gaze with a grin._

_ "The speech you're working on? Already written."_

_ "Merlin," Arthur said, standing. "Have I ever told you you're a lifesaver?"_

_ "Don't think so, no."_

_ "Yeah, I didn't think so, either."_

_ Merlin threw the paper up into the air, and Arthur caught it. He scanned its contents quickly, then tossed it onto his desk._

_ "So, you going to help me into my armour?"_

_ "That's what I came here for," Merlin answered._

_ "Merlin, sometimes I wonder what I'd do without you."_

_ "Die, probably," Merlin said with a small grin that warmed Arthur's heart._

* * *

When Arthur reaches Merlin's old room, his heart is in his throat. Hardly daring to hope, he pushes the door open and stops in his tracks even as his heart leaps with a fierce, untameable joy, because –

Merlin is sitting on the edge of his old bed, shirtless, leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his chin in his hands as though deep in thought. And it _is_ him, cheekbones and all. A blue neckerchief lies, discarded, on the floor at his feet, and Arthur knows him the moment he lays eyes on him. Merlin, back in Camelot. Merlin, _alive_. Disbelief and fear war with joy and relief, and for several moments Arthur can find nothing to say. Neither, it seems, can Merlin, for his shoulders tense and his spine goes rigid, a stiff, firm line slashing across the lean muscles of his back. He slowly rises and turns to face him, eyes downcast, as though he can't bring himself to look at Arthur. And Arthur stares, because here is Merlin, slender and pale but alive and _real_, and Arthur feels he will never tire of the sight.

"_Merlin_," he says, and can say nothing more.

He moves forward, wanting nothing more than to hug, to touch Merlin to check that this isn't a dream, but Merlin recoils and Arthur lets his outstretched hand fall to his side again. Merlin bends down at the waist into a low bow, keeping his eyes on the floor, but already an ironic smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Sire," he replies when he straightens up, without inflection – no resentment, no mocking, nothing. There is an ugly, bitter twist to his mouth and a coolness in his eyes when he finally looks at Arthur, but his attitude is that of complete deference. "Is there anything I can do for you? Or have you come to arrest me again? I won't let you, you know."

Arthur feels it like a slap in the face, pain twisting inside his gut. "That's not – I wouldn't," he says, wanting it to be true, but he would. He _did_.

Arthur looks away from Merlin's accusing, knowing eyes.

"Then how may I help you, my lord?"

"I just," Arthur says. "I just wanted to see –"

A cloud outside shifts, allowing a bright ray of sunlight to filter through the small, dirty window. Merlin's eyes seem to catch and reflect the light; for the smallest of moments they shine gold, and Arthur doesn't just have a hurt and betrayed friend before him, he has a vengeful and sneering sorcerer, a sorcerer whom he _killed_, and who killed –

A fresh wave of guilt crashes over Arthur even as he backs away so quickly he almost trips over his own feet. He wrenches the door open and runs without a backwards glance, feeling the weight of Merlin's accusing, unforgiving stare on the back of his neck. As he rushes through the corridors, fearful and hating himself for his cowardice, he hears a servant worriedly inquire after him but he ignores him. Arthur reaches his room and slams the door behind him before sinking to his knees, his shoulders shaking, tasting salt on his lips from the tears running unchecked down his cheeks. He doesn't know why he's crying now, when he didn't over Merlin's death, and he doesn't know when he started, but his face is wet and his eyes sting. The acrid taste of ash burns the back of his throat, and he thinks he can almost _smell_ the smoke.

Merlin is alive, but Arthur still killed him, and Uther is still dead, and nothing is all right.

But.

Merlin is _alive_.

* * *

_The day Arthur met Merlin, he thought he was the biggest idiot ever. But a part of him also knew that he'd just laid eyes on the bravest men he would ever know. The stupidity came hand in hand with Merlin's recklessness. But something about Merlin arrested Arthur's attention, and that was why he went after him, after already having had his revenge by putting Merlin in the stocks. _Something about him_. Maybe he just wanted to see whether, knowing who he was, Merlin would __still dare to defy him._

_ He did._

_ "I could take you apart with one blow," Arthur said, and all right, maybe it was a boast, encouraged by the knights watching him, but at the time he believed it._

_ "I could take you apart with less than that."_

_ Looking back, later, Arthur would see the truth in that sentence. A word, a wave of his hand and Merlin _could_. But he hadn't, and he wouldn't._

_ At the time, Arthur had wanted to laugh, because Merlin was just a skinny kid who had no idea what he was getting into. He had taunted Merlin, and to his surprise and delight, Merlin had taunted right back._

_ "H__ow long have you been training to be a prat?" _

_ Arthur snorted, disbelieving. "You can't address me like that."_

_ "I'm sorry." Merlin's tone rang with insincerity, and Arthur didn't, not for one second, __believe him. "How long have you been training to be a prat... my _lord_?"_

_ Years later, a Merlin come back from the dead would bow in the exact same way and speak with that exact same inflection, but this time, it would hurt a hundred times more._

* * *

Gwaine is the first to come back.

Arthur doesn't understand how he could have known. As far as he knows, only three people are aware of Merlin's return: Gaius, Arthur himself, and of course, Merlin. It isn't widespread knowledge, as sorcery is still feared in the kingdom, and a warlock come back from the dead is not someone who could easily be trusted. Gaius wouldn't have sent for Gwaine without Merlin's consent, and Merlin isn't selfish enough to ask the knight to come back for his sake. Yet when the news of Sir Gwaine's return reaches Arthur's ears, he knows at once that it is no coincidence. Gwaine doesn't _change his mind_. He wouldn't have already forgiven Arthur, or forgotten his anger and his own guilt. The only reason he's coming back was Merlin.

Arthur waits on the steps of the castle and watches his knight gallop up to him, his horse obviously weary and winded from hard riding, its breathing harsh and laboured. Arthur motions for one of the stable boys to take it and give it the good rub-down it deserves. Gwaine is not usually one to mistreat his horse, but Arthur can understand his haste.

"Arthur." Gwaine looks a little surprised by his presence, and less than pleased.

He tenses up a little when Arthur moves forward to grip his forearm in greeting. There is a change in him that goes beyond the lack of armour and the absence of the red cloak Arthur gave him. His plain clothing is reminiscent of the Gwaine Arthur met as a peasant, the tavern brawler who took a knife for him, but the sword at his side, the new, guarded look in his eyes, the utter absence of laughter in his expression, and the small bird that still hangs around his neck all make Arthur feel as though he is facing a stranger.

"I hope you've been well," Arthur says. And, because he feels he needs to prove something to Gwaine, he adds: "He's in his old room."

Gwaine's eyes widen, as though surprised that Arthur knows – or, most likely, surprised that he hasn't done anything about it.

"Are you –" he begins, then checks himself. "Thank you, Arthur."

"He'll be glad to see you."

Arthur can't help the pang of jealousy that pulls at his gut, knowing the words to be true: Merlin must miss his friends, and Gwaine has never let him down, nor would he ever wish to.

"And I him," Gwaine says, his eyes travelling over Arthur's shoulder to the doors that lead into the castle, impatience clearly written across his face.

Arthur steps aside and watches as Gwaine, his step eager and hurried, immediately starts up the steps and towards the doors. When he is about to disappear inside, Arthur calls out his name.

"Gwaine, wait."

Gwaine stops and turns, one hand gently fingering his necklace, a small smile already forming on his lips at the thought of seeing Merlin again.

"Sire?" he asks, and there is that hint of playfulness in his tone that encourages Arthur to say:

"Since you're back, after this, would you..." He hesitates, but the expectant look in Gwaine's eyes urges him on. "You know you're one of my best knights."

"I wasn't aware I was still a knight," Gwaine says slowly, his smile fading. His eyes take on a strange, faraway look. "After I –"

"You can be, if you wish to," Arthur says. "I – I would be honoured to have you by my side once more."

Gwaine doesn't answer immediately. "I heard you killed Caerleon," he says after a moment.

Arthur winces. "I did. What has that got to do with it?"

Gwaine looks at him strangely. "Everything. And nothing." He pauses. "My father was a knight in Caerleon's army."

Arthur feels something in his gut tighten. "You told me you weren't a noble."

"I'm not. Nobility is something more than what you're born. I never wanted to live that kind of life."

"I might have known," Arthur says, thinking this was yet another lie he never saw. "What's bred in the bone will come out in the flesh. You might not like it, but you are a noble." He spreads his hands questioningly. "Are you my knight?"

Gwaine hesitates, and for a moment Arthur thinks his plea will be rejected. Then Gwaine lays a hand on his sword and says, very seriously:

"To the death, Arthur."

Arthur feels himself smile, and Gwaine's answering grin warms his heart.

"And besides," Gwaine calls over his shoulder as he hurries away, "we never did get to finish that fight!"

Though it isn't him Gwaine has come back for, Arthur still feels as though a piece of his heart has been returned to him.

* * *

_Arthur's quest, what felt like an eternity ago. The Perilous Lands, the Fisher King's trident. __And Gwaine._

_ Gwaine and Merlin, who were absolutely not supposed to be there, but who had no doubt saved him. Arthur wasn't sure how he felt about it; certainly he couldn't thank them for it. He was silent during most of the ride back to the border, and behind him, Gwaine and Merlin talked, exchanging teasing comments. Merlin took it all in good humour, being used to the same sort of remarks from Arthur, but he gave as good as he got, and Arthur tried to pretend he wasn't listening._

_ Gwaine and Merlin were both peasants, and there was an easy, natural companionship between them that wasn't hindered by their ranks. And of that, Arthur couldn't help but be jealous. Because though Merlin would follow Arthur on a dangerous quest just to make sure he was alive, it was _Gwaine_ he had gone to for help. Gwaine who could and would help him, when he needed it; Gwaine with whom the relationship was equal on both sides. _

_ Gwaine gave a sharp, appreciative bark of laughter. "Oh, good one, Merlin."_

_ Merlin laughed as well. "You deserved it."_

_ There was a moment of silence where Arthur could practically _feel_ the way they smiled at each other behind him._

_"I've missed having a friend around." Gwaine's tone was wistful and unashamedly honest._

_ After Gwaine left them at the border, Merlin was remarkably quiet for a long while._

* * *

Gwaine, true to his word, does stay, and he once again wears the Pendragon colours.

"You kept it?" Arthur says the first day he shows up with his red cloak fastened around his shoulders.

"As a reminder," Gwaine replies. "It was the right colour."

The colour of blood. Arthur bites his tongue to keep from commenting.

Gwaine trains as hard as he did before, and argues with Arthur over everything, and if he is ever overly aggressive during training, if Arthur leaves their bouts of sparring with the sort of bruises he's never had before, well, it's never mentioned between them. Gwaine is back for good, and in him Arthur knows he has a man who can be trusted, even if he doesn't trust Arthur back.

Every day, Arthur knows every time Gwaine can't be found, he's in Merlin's room, talking and touching and disbelieving and _needing_ it, needing the reassurance of Merlin's presence the way Arthur needs it, craves it. To Arthur the presence can only ever be a mere shadow, a hint that Merlin's life still follows his. Merlin is like a ghost, haunting Arthur, and yet disappearing whenever he tries to look too closely. He sometimes catches a flash of blue, and thinks he recognises it as one of Merlin's neckerchiefs, but he can never be sure of it.

Gwaine, on the other hand, speaks to Merlin regularly.

"You should know I don't agree with him," he tells Arthur frankly, "but _he_ still sees the good in you, and that you have to be protected. And since you're always getting yourself into trouble, you really do need me. That's why I'm staying."

And Arthur can't find it in himself to thank him. The words ring in his head: _He still sees the good in you. The good in you_. What good can Merlin possibly see, when Arthur has executed his best friend, killed the king of another nation, and driven all his knights away? But of course Merlin _would_. He's still Merlin.

And what good can Arthur possibly see in Merlin, now?

The guilt is still ever-present, gnawing at Arthur from the inside, but beyond that is a steady inner peace that comes from the knowledge that Merlin lives still, that something still binds him to Camelot, and that he continues to protect Arthur.

"I think you two need to talk," Gwaine says.

* * *

_ There had been a time, short as it had been, before Gwen, when Arthur thought there might be something hidden in the moments, the glances, the touches. It was all in the details; the furtive looks that spoke more than a thousand words ever could, the concern that Arthur felt for the servant who insisted on riding into battle at his side, the easy comforting laughter. And even after Arthur had started noticing how beautiful Gwen was, Merlin had never stopped just _being there_, different, constant, loyal. He had risked his life, over and over again. He had endured the jokes and the objects thrown at him. He had – and the memory was now twisted and bitter – spent the night after Uther's death waiting outside Arthur's room, just to be there in case comfort was needed. _

_ Arthur remembered another night, vividly, a night spent in each other's arms, comforting and indestructible, a moment that could never be acknowledged._

* * *

He hasn't returned to Merlin's room since that first time, because he sorely wants Merlin to come to him, and because he's afraid of the accusation in Merlin's eyes. But he does go, eventually, because Arthur wants to interpret Gwaine's _"You two need to talk"_ as _"He wants to see you as much as you want to see him."_ It's been too much, knowing that Merlin is in the castle and not being able to _see_ him, that one day as he passes before Gaius' room he hesitates and pushes the door open. The physician is thankfully absent, and Arthur doesn't allow himself to think before he walks straight into Merlin's room.

Merlin looks up at him from where he is lying on the bed, and though he sits up and his eyes widen in surprise, he neither stands nor bows, for which Arthur is thankful. Maybe time doesn't heal all wounds completely, maybe there will always be scars, but – this is a start.

"Do you spend your days just doing _nothing_?" Arthur asks, the words escaping him before he can fully think them through.

Merlin doesn't smile, but it's a near thing. "It's not that much of a change from before."

"Well, yes," Arthur says. He catches himself before he tries to engage in their usual banter. "Surely you've been doing _something_."

"I have, actually," Merlin says.

He flexes the fingers of his right hand. Arthur's eyes zero in on the motion and he thinks _Magic_ but also _Merlin_.

"I wish you could do it openly."

After a few startled beats, Merlin says, "So do I."

"Couldn't you disguise yourself, or something? If I legalised –"

Merlin shakes his head. "I'd rather not live a lie again."

"Right."

For a few moments, they just look at each other. Arthur is dying to reach out and touch him, but he keeps his hands at his sides, remembering the way Merlin shrank back from him the last time he'd tried. Merlin, who looks neither afraid nor bitter right now, only as lost as Arthur.

"Why are you here?" Merlin asks, not aggressively.

"Because... we need to talk."

"We needed to talk four months ago, when you found me out."

Arthur flinches at the memory. He might have missed Merlin, he might have realised just how important his stupid manservant was, but in the end, Merlin still killed his father, and Arthur can never understand that.

"I wasn't ready to listen."

"And now you are?" Merlin crosses his arms defensively. "There's nothing I can say that will change what happened. I won't defend my actions, and I can't justify yours."

Arthur swallows. "Then maybe I'm the one who needs to explain."

"There's nothing to explain. I know why you did what you did. That doesn't make it right."

To be faced not with Merlin's resentment, but such a calm resignation, is worse than Arthur thought it could be. Merlin isn't insulting him, but he finds the words that cut a path straight to Arthur's heart and it _hurts_. Arthur, looking into Merlin's eyes, can see no trace of the warmth that has always been there.

"I – I also wanted to thank you," Arthur says. "For what you've been doing. I realise that without you, Camelot would –"

"I haven't done anything for Camelot's sake," Merlin interrupts him, eyes flashing. "How blind _are_ you, Arthur? Why would I want to protect your kingdom?"

_Your kingdom._

_ Your_, not our, and why does that hurt so much? In three sentences, Merlin has shattered all of Arthur's hopes and certainty, has swept aside the reasons Arthur even wanted to talk to him for. He meets Arthur's gaze evenly, lips curving into the smallest of smiles as the silence stretches out between them, heavy and unforgiving.

Arthur steps back and, quickly, thinks of something else; something that is safer territory. "Lancelot has sent word that he's coming back. I wanted to be the one to tell you."

Arthur sees the way Merlin's eyes light up, and struggles not to be jealous.

"Gwen and Elyan are with him," he adds.

Merlin starts, as if surprised; but really, he must have known. Everyone knows.

_ We are coming_, Lancelot wrote, and Arthur's relief is stronger than it has any right to be – but then from the start he was unable to blame Gwen for leaving, and he finds himself wishing that she is not only safe, but happy.

"I did wonder, when I knew that Gwen had left..." Merlin smiles fondly as he says Gwen's name. "Did you know?"

Arthur nods, not trusting himself to speak. He can't blame Gwen, but he loved her with all his heart, and her absence – as well as the reasons for it – have been hard to bear.

"I'm sorry."

"Lancelot is a good man." Arthur fights to keep his voice steady. "He'll do well by her."

"But Gwen chose _you_."

"Well," Arthur says, "Lancelot wasn't around back then, was he? I don't mean to cheapen what we had, but – he can obviously give her more than I can."

"More than a kingdom?"  
"Yes," Arthur says. "More than that."

"So you're not angry?"

"No." _Are you?_

Arthur doesn't say it, though, and Merlin is also silent, so that for several long moments they only stare at each other. Merlin swings his legs over the side of the bed, and looks up at Arthur with an indecipherable expression on his face.

"I missed you," Arthur says, because it has to be said. "When you were gone, I missed you."

A shadow crosses Merlin's expression, and a wall slams up between them again. "You might have thought of that _before_ you condemned me."

* * *

_Arthur saw Merlin once, between the revelation and the execution. Merlin was dragged from the dungeons and brought before the king. The guards didn't even have to force him down: he dropped to his knees without being prompted, his face upturned, eyes searching. He looked pale and shaken; there were tear tracks on his cheeks. Arthur looked stonily down at him, ignoring the pang in his chest at the sight of his closest friend in chains._

_ "Merlin," he said, drawing the name out, trying to allow neither rage nor pity into his tone – justice was impartial. "You have been found guilty by the king's court of the crimes of sorcery, high treason, and assassination. For these crimes, you are hereby sentenced to death."_

_ Merlin started. His face lost what little colour it had still held. _

_ "Arthur –" he started, but Arthur had anticipated it, and he interrupted Merlin with a steady voice._

_ "You will be executed tomorrow. May God have mercy on your soul."_

* * *

Gwen and Lancelot ride up to the castle stables side by side, Elyan half a pace behind them. Arthur watches them coming from afar, and is struck by how easily Gwen sits, and how proudly she carries herself. When she slides off her horse she immediately launches herself into Arthur's arms, burying her face in his shoulder. Arthur catches her reflexively and holds her tight, delighting in the feel of her warm body pressed up against his, remembering the bliss and small joys they shared. They need no words to say, _I missed you_. Gwen, the only woman he has ever truly loved, is by his side once more.

Lancelot dismounts and, smiling, Gwen pulls back and goes to stand by him. It's like a bucketful of cold water for Arthur, who remembers suddenly the weeks, months Gwen and Lancelot have spent together. During their embrace he felt a sword strapped to her hip, and he looks at it now to remind himself that Gwen is no longer his.

"Arthur," Lancelot says, voice low and cautious.

Arthur hesitates for only a moment before he steps forward and grips Lancelot's forearm, clapping him on the back with the other hand. He greets Elyan in the same way, smiling at his knight.

"Good to see you again," he says, and means it.

He has always been fond of Lancelot, has admired and looked up to him; and Elyan is Gwen's brother, a man he trusts and a skilled fighter. He means for there to be as little resentment between them as possible.

"Is it true?" Gwen asks, and there was a light in her eyes that Arthur has missed. "Is he really –?"

"It's true," Merlin says, emerging from one of the stalls, a small, uncertain grin on his lips.

Arthur starts, his eyes flitting to Merlin's immediately; they haven't spoken since the last time he went to Merlin's room, and it's a shock to see Merlin out in the open like this. Gwen lets out an astonished little cry, but in the next instant she is in Merlin's arms, having leapt at him with enough eagerness to almost make him topple over. Though her face is hidden in the cloth of Merlin's blue neckerchief, the way her shoulders shake make it evident that she's crying. Merlin laughs delightedly, a sound Arthur hasn't heard in so long, and his arms wrap themselves around Gwen, bringing her closer to him. Gwen's fists clench around handfuls of his shirt, and she leans into him like she's afraid he might disappear at any moment. Arthur feels something tighten in his ribcage.

"How?" Lancelot asks, and it's wonder, not fear that Arthur can detect in his tone. "We saw you – you _died_."

"I couldn't leave," Merlin says, glancing at Arthur, the joy fading from his expression. "Even when I wasn't wanted."

Lancelot looks like he had a thousand questions, but he holds his tongue, and instead moves forward to sling an arm around Merlin's shoulders. Gwen is still clinging to Merlin, but her head is tilted back now, and she's looking up at his face as though she will never tire of tracing his features with her eyes. Her smile is more brilliant than Arthur has ever seen it.

This is something else he has lost.

* * *

It's days, weeks before Arthur and Merlin have anything vaguely resembling a real conversation. He sees Merlin lighten up day after day. Lancelot, Gwaine, Elyan and Gwen are having that effect on him, bringing friends back into his life. Friends whom he can trust, friends from whom he doesn't have to hide.

It's this thought which prompts Arthur to say, one day: "I'd like for the court to know you're back."

Arthur doesn't miss the brief but intense flash of longing that crosses Merlin's expression. Being confined to his room unless in disguise has to be wearing him down. He can't talk to the knights in public, even disguised, without drawing attention.

"You know that isn't possible," he says, his flat tone belying his expression. "I was executed. You can't just announce to everyone that I'm back from the dead and that you've pardoned me."

_Pardoned_. Has he, really?

No. Not just yet.

But maybe someday.

"You can't spend your whole life hiding –"

"Who said I was planning on staying here that long?"

Arthur falters, thinking _Don't, you can't leave me_. "I just thought – look, you can't keep hiding like this. I'm the king; if anyone doesn't like it then what can they do about it?"

Merlin looks at him sharply. "That's exactly the kind of king I hoped you would never be," he says, and Arthur flinches. "The crown is a _responsibility_, you idiot, not an excuse to do whatever you want at other people's expense. You've always wanted to be a fair king."

"But this isn't fair to _you. _I don't want you to live like this."

"Lift the ban on magic first," Merlin says, still unsmilingly, "and then maybe we'll talk about it."

Arthur steps back, feeling like he'd been punched.

He's thought about it, of course he has. Even before Merlin's return. He's been contemplating it ever since Gwaine opened his eyes to what Merlin really did with his magic: serve and save Arthur, again and again. But he always faced the same problem: he needs someone by his side who understands magic well enough to advise him. Someone he trusts and someone who has magic of his own, to some degree of power, in case things go wrong.

Arthur didn't miss the irony. Merlin was no doubt the only person in the kingdom who fit that description.

But Merlin has never so much as hinted that he wanted anything to be done about the ban on magic, not in the years spent as Arthur's manservant and not in the months since. And how was Arthur to have known, when the one person who used his magic for him lied about it? But there is blame now in Merlin's tone, as though lifting the ban should have been done years ago.

"I will," Arthur says. "But I'll need your help."

Merlin doesn't hesitate. "You have it."

* * *

_A still-fresh, still-painful memory. Morgana's betrayal, one of the worst kind. The Cup of Life and her immortal army. Arthur, leading a small group of half-proven knights in a desperate battle he didn't even believe in. The adrenaline, the necessity of regaining his kingdom and freeing his people kept him fighting, but when it was over and the depth of Morgana's betrayal hit him, he broke down._

_ "She's lost to us," he said, sinking down to his knees. "She's lost, and my father is – my father –" He choked on the words he couldn't say. "I have a kingdom, but what's left of it? Tell me, Merlin, what's left?"_

_ Merlin's hand on his shoulder, firm and unhesitant, like it belonged there. "You have your knights. You have your people. And you still have me. You'll always have me."_

* * *

Something moves under the bed. There's a snort, powerful enough to disrupt Merlin's sheets, and Merlin shakes his head, looking amused.

"Ah, forget it," he says, like he's speaking to himself.

He crouches down by the side of the bed and reaches underneath, speaking in a soothing, coaxing tone.

"Come on, now, baby. You can come out, forget that I told you to hide, it's obviously not working."

There's tiny, squalling noise from underneath the bed. Arthur stares, incredulous, as Merlin seems to carry out a conversation with whatever he has hidden under his bed (a dog? An underfed cat? A unicorn?). And when Merlin finally emerges with the animal cradled in his arms, awkwardly folded into as small a shape as possible, Arthur rears back in sudden fear.

"Merlin." His voice is a more high-pitched than usual, though he would never admit it. "Tell me that isn't what I think it is."

"It isn't what you think it is," Merlin lies smoothly, because he knows how to lie. He's smiling down at the – the deformed, hairless, white, scaly _thing_ with wings and teeth and _claws_.

A dragon.

A real-life goddamned _dragon_. In Merlin's room. In Arthur's castle.

All right, it's obviously a baby dragon. But still.

"Where in the world did you get a _dragon_, Merlin?"

"It's a long story."

"I thought," Arthur says slowly, "that I killed the last dragon."

Merlin gives him an unimpressed look. "What? Haven't you figured that one out yet?"

"I didn't kill the last dragon?"

"Obviously not." Merlin smooths his hand gently, reassuringly across the side of the dragon's neck, holding it in place as it struggles to get closer to Arthur, its wide eyes curious. "Arthur, meet Aithusa. Aithusa, this is Arthur. He's a bit of a prat, but I won't let him harm you."

Arthur feels like laughing, and he probably would if there wasn't a dragon staring at him. "Aithusa," he repeats faintly. "So you're a dragonlord as well as a sorcerer."

"Which one is worse?" Merlin sounds like he genuinely wanted to know.

"Right now I don't know," Arthur says. "Was it you who released the Great Dragon on Camelot?"

A shadow passes over Merlin's expression. "I didn't know what he was going to do."

_Again_.

Again that sharp pain of betrayal, the choking guilt that rises up in him at having been so blind, the regrets and the doubts. Was Merlin ever really his, or has he only done what was right for magic, for magical creatures? Arthur desperately wants to just _ask_.

He doesn't.

* * *

_ Merlin, readying Arthur for a fight. Despair heavy on Arthur's shoulders, knowing that to ride out against the dragon was suicide. Merlin was silent, his eyes downcast as he checked the straps, his mouth a firm, straight line. Arthur tried to lighten the atmosphere with a joke._

_ "Well, look on the bright side, Merlin. Chances are you're not going to have to clean this again."_

_ Merlin didn't even raise his head; he continued fighting the buckles around Arthur's forearm. "You must be careful today. Do not force the battle."_

_ "Yes, Sire," Arthur said sarcastically, wondering whether this was Merlin's way of saying good-bye._

_ Merlin moved around behind him, his hands firm across his back. "I'm serious."_

_ "I can hear that."_

_ Merlin was quiet. For a moment, the only sound to be heard was his breathing behind Arthur._

_ "Let matters take their course." _

_ Arthur rolled his eyes and smiled despite himself. "Merlin, if I die, please..."_ Don't order the next noble you serve around_._

_"What?" Merlin said, and he didn't say _You're not going to die, so I don't want to hear this.

_Arthur felt his smile fade; he was glad Merlin was behind him so he didn't have to look him in the eyes. He collected himself before turning around to face Merlin._

_ "The dragonlord today."_

_ Merlin lowered his gaze, sorrow shadowing his expression again; Arthur remembered how freely he had wept when Balinor had died. _

_ "I saw you."_

_ Merlin raised his eyes to Arthur's, and his eyes were dark with grief. For a moment they just looked at each other; then Arthur reached out and laid his hand on Merlin's shoulder._

_ "One thing I tell all my young knights: no man is worth your tears."_

_ He didn't want Merlin to cry for him. He didn't even want Merlin to miss him. It didn't matter that Merlin wasn't a knight; he was as good as. Arthur saw Merlin register the phrasing, then the meaning behind him; he watched as Merlin gave a tight nod, then a fragile grin, and said,_

_ "Yeah. You're certainly not."_

_ Arthur's relief was short-lived; Merlin immediately ducked out of his hold on him and moved away to pick up a sword._

_ "What are you doing?"_

_ Merlin looked at him. _Do you really have to ask?

_ "I'm coming with you."_

_ Arthur blinked. "Merlin, chances are I'm going to die."_

_ Merlin smiled and nodded, like he knew, like it didn't change anything. "Yeah. Yeah you probably would if I wasn't there."_  
_ "Right."_

_"Do you know how many times I've had to save your royal backside?"_

_ Arthur smiled at the joke, thinking _This is what I want to remember_. "Well at least you got your sense of humour back."_

_ He hoped Merlin would always hold on to that sense of humour. He clashed his sword against Merlin's, moving him out of the way, then started towards the door, because this – this was a good memory to end things on. But Merlin fell in step with him almost immediately. Arthur stopped, and Merlin stopped by his side, looking at him. _What?

_"Are you really going to face this dragon with me?"_

_ "I'm not going to sit here and watch."_

_ Arthur knew he was frowning. _I can't let you do that_. Merlin would be going to his death, and it wasn't his role to defend Camelot. It wasn't even his role to protect _Arthur_. He was only a manservant. Why would he –_

_ "I know it's hard for you to understand how I feel, but... Well, I care a hell of a lot about that armour. I'm not going to let you mess it up."_

_ They laughed, and Arthur thought, _All right then_. _

_ Because if Merlin wanted to, then there was no one Arthur would rather have by his side to face a dragon._

* * *

Aithusa wriggles in Merlin's arms. Merlin looks down at him.

"Do you mind if I let him down?"

Arthur minds a hell of a lot.

"No," he says.

Merlin smiles gratefully, and allows Aithusa to scurry away from him and settle into a corner of the room, still staring intently at Arthur. Arthur shifts uncomfortably.

Well.

The dragon _is_ rather endearing, actually.

"He won't hurt you," Merlin says. "I wouldn't let him."

Arthur grins. "Isn't that what you said to him?"

Merlin shrugs. "I was worried you might kill each other." He glances fondly at Aithusa. "I wish he could talk. He probably likes you. But he won't be able to for a little while."

"Talk," Arthur repeats.

"Yeah," Merlin says. "Kilgarrah says he'll learn just by being around me."

Arthur almost asks, _Who's Kilgarrah?_ but he thinks he probably doesn't want to know.

"I don't have a manservant anymore," Arthur says instead. "I haven't since you –"

Merlin shakes his head at him, pityingly, and Arthur's spirits sink. "Arthur," he says gently. "You know I can't."

_Can't, or won't?_ Arthur nods and looks away, swallowing with difficulty.

* * *

_Arthur, with his arm still bound after the Questing Beast injury. Merlin in his room, as irreverent as usual._

_ The words, "I'm happy to be your servant, 'til the day I die."_

* * *

Some days, when he's alone in his room because he always sends the servants away as soon as the food has been brought, Arthur wonders whether he's doing the right thing. If he shouldn't try to drive Merlin away. But Merlin already has every reason to want to avoid Camelot, and yet here he is, still. Always. He isn't hurting anyone, and yet –

The sound of someone knocking jerks Arthur out of his thoughts so suddenly half the contents of his goblet spill to the floor. He swears out loud, and thinks that whoever is behind the door had better have a cloth to soak that up.

"Come in!" he calls.

The handle turns, the door slides open, and in steps Merlin. It's unlikely he has a cloth, but suddenly that doesn't matter anymore. Arthur jumps to his feet, the goblet forgotten, ignoring the crash as his chair is knocked to the ground behind him.

"Merlin!" he exclaims, and would probably have kicked himself if he'd heard the hope in his own voice. "I didn't realise it was you. Since when do you _knock_?"

"Are you really going to complain about it?"

"No," Arthur says. And because he can't understand why Merlin was here, he asks: "Was there – is something the matter? Has something happened? Morgana –"

Merlin raises a hand. "No, nothing like that. Camelot is safe."

"Oh," Arthur says, because Merlin _sought him out_ and apparently there isn't an immediate catastrophe to explain his presence so _why_?

"I just..." Merlin fingers the cloth around his neck nervously, and Arthur realises with a jolt that his neckerchief is red – _red_, not blue, and he's probably reading a lot more into this than he should, but the sight warms his heart and he thinks that one day, he'd like to dress Merlin from head to toe in his colours again. "I was just thinking about what you said last time."

Arthur's heart rate speeds up. "I said a lot of things last time."

"True." Merlin's eyes dart around the room, as though making sure they're alone. "So. Does the offer still stand?"

Arthur doesn't pretend not to know what he's talking about. "I suppose it depends on whether or not you're interested."

Merlin smiles faintly, and there's none of the arrogance that Arthur has grown used to seeing there. "I'm interested," he says, almost shyly, as though testing the waters, as though Arthur wouldn't give him whatever he wanted, accede to his every request, if only Merlin would condescend to give him the time of day again.

"What exactly are you asking for?" Arthur asks, hoping he isn't pushing his luck. "The job, or -" He doesn't dare say anything further, and knows Merlin will understand.

_Are we friends again?_

"The wages are definitely not interesting enough for me to want the job back that badly," Merlin says. "Unless you gave me a raise."

It's a joke, Arthur can tell, but it's all he can do not to reply, _Yes, of course, how much? Just __ask and it's yours._

"Merlin," Arthur says, wishing he could joke, and hating the guilt that eats away at him, "you know we –"

_We can't be what we want to be. The court can't know you're back. _

"I want to try," Merlin says. "I want things to be all right again."

Arthur nods. "I want that, too."

_I want that so much. You have no idea. I want us to be able to laugh together. I want to be able to look at you without seeing fire and smoke. I want to trust you again. I want to hold you in my arms and keep you safe. I want you to look at me the way you used to, and not like you're afraid I might break at any moment._ He wants Merlin back, whole and happy, but he knows he's lost the right to expect that from him.

But if Merlin _wants_ it, too – and Arthur remembers the precise way Merlin used to look at him, with devotion and something stronger than friendship, something that when he thinks of it now triples the constant guilt.

"Do you," Arthur says slowly, thinking of that look, "do you hate me now?"

"If you think me capable of hating you as much as you hate me," Merlin says, harsh and punishing as a whip, "if you really think I _would_, you obviously don't know me at all."

* * *

_ "Sometimes I think I know you, Merlin. Other times..."_

_ "Well... I know _you_."_

* * *

For him.

Not Camelot. Him.

* * *

_ "I know it's hard for you to understand how I feel..."_

* * *

Somewhere along the line, Merlin has forgiven him – if he ever really blamed him in the first place. And it's not, it has never been Camelot he protects. It's Arthur and the people Arthur cares about, because... because?

Because he's _Merlin_.

"I used to think I knew you," Arthur says.

"That's because you used to know me."

"And you've changed?"

Merlin shakes his head. "You're the one who's changing."

He doesn't sound sad as he said it; there's a glint of pride in his cold blue eyes, and Arthur tries to take comfort in it.

Can they learn to know each other again, to trust as they used to? He remembers the defiance in Merlin's eyes when he set fire to the pyre, the unspoken challenge – _Go on. I dare you_. And Merlin didn't, not for a second, believe that Arthur could do it. His trust was that unconditional, and Arthur didn't live up to it.

But even then, even during those brief moments before the fire spread and the flames leapt towards him, Merlin didn't struggle. He could have freed himself; everyone knew that. But he didn't. He looked down at the fire at his feet, stunned; and then he raised his eyes to Arthur's and stared at him, the expression on his face neither afraid nor hateful. It was the expression of a man who had lost all that was worth living for. Who had lost _Arthur_.

He held Arthur's gaze for much longer than should have been possible.

"Where did you go, after you – woke up?" Arthur asks.

Merlin gives him an amused look at the euphemism. "Ealdor, to my mother."

Hunith. Arthur wonders what Merlin told her, what she must have thought.

* * *

_ "It's your birthday next week."_

_ Merlin looked up. "So?"_

_ "So I thought you might like to return home."_

_ Merlin looked quizzical. "Home?"_

_ "I meant Ealdor."_

_ Merlin went completely still, conflicting emotions crossing his expression. He hadn't been to Ealdor, Arthur knew, in many months – almost a year. He hadn't seen his mother in that long. And yet..._

_ "Are you trying to get rid of me?"_

_ "_No_," Arthur said. "Think of it as a – a favour."_

_ Merlin tilted his chin up. "I'm not leaving you."_

_ "I'm sure I'll manage just fine for a week or two without you, Merlin."_

_ "I'm not leaving for _two weeks_!" Merlin sounded scandalised. "You wouldn't survive two _days_ without me!"_

_ Arthur rolled his eyes. "Please, Merlin. I'm sure I can manage not to die just because someone isn't there to throw things at."_

_ "You think?" Merlin said. "How are you going to get dressed and undressed? How are you going to make any speeches, or talk to Gwen without making a complete idiot of yourself? Who are you going to use as a training dummy? Forget all that – how are you even going to get out of _bed_?"_

_ Arthur winced. "I'll just have to ask George."_

_ Merlin wrinkled his nose. "George? That's it, then. You'd die of boredom. I can't go."_

_ "_Merlin_."_

_ "_Arthur_," Merlin mimicked._

_ "You can't just say _no_ to a birthday gift."_

_ Merlin marked a pause. "Is that what this is?"_

_ Arthur met his gaze. "Yes. That's what this is."_

* * *

"How is Hunith?"

Merlin smiles, a faraway look settling in his eyes. "Fine. She's... fine."

"I'm glad."

And Arthur doesn't ask, _Does she know? Does she know what you did? Does she know what I did to you?_

"How long did you stay?"

"Just a few days," Merlin says. "Long enough to realise that I couldn't stay away from you."

And – Merlin can't just _say_ things like that and expect Arthur not to react. Arthur steps closer until their shirts almost brush against each other, until he can practically feel the warmth of Merlin's skin even though they aren't touching. His heart is racing, because Merlin isn't backing away, and this is the closest they've been since – since –

Arthur's hand rises to Merlin's throat, tracing the pale skin there, exposed by Merlin's nervous tugging on his neckerchief. There's a thin leather cord around Merlin's neck that Arthur is fairly certain is recent; it disappears beneath Merlin's tunic, pulled low by the weight of a pendant. Arthur, feeling sick, already knowing what he is going to find to find, gently tugs at the cord, his fingers brushing against the skin over Merlin's collarbones, his neck, the hollow of his throat. On the necklace hangs the small, wooden bird with the golden eyes that Gwaine wore in the months after Merlin's death.

"He gave you this?" he asks, tasting something bitter in the back of his mouth.

Merlin lifts a hand to cover Arthur's; the touch is warm and gentle. "As a reminder."

A reminder of what? That Arthur can't be trusted? Or that Gwaine is Merlin's, through and through, and not Arthur's?

Merlin must have seen the look in his face, because he says, "Arthur, don't."

And Arthur isn't sure what it is he isn't supposed to do, but he nods anyway. He would promise the world if he thought it would keep Merlin like this – Merlin's body close to his, his mouth curled into a smile, their hands pressed together.

* * *

_It was a habit by now, a part of their morning routine. Neither Merlin nor Arthur put much thought into it. Arthur just _expected_ it, and Merlin obeyed. It had taken him some time to learn how to do it, but he was now as skilled as any manservant in this regard at least. Though outside of these moments he sometimes joked about Arthur being unable to dress himself, he was always silent __when he dressed Arthur. Not so today._

_ "This is a fancy one," Merlin said, picking up the shirt and holding it up to the light. He didn't look pleased. "Special occasion?"_

_ "You know Bayard is coming for an official visit this afternoon."_

_ "Oh, right." Merlin wrinkled his nose. "You're supposed to impress them by wearing a shirt that makes you look good? Wouldn't your armour do the job better?"_

_ "We're not at war with Mercia, Merlin. Nor do we wish to be. We'll be greeting royal guests with as much respect and hospitality as possible."_

_ "Right," Merlin said again. "You know, the lacings on this thing are really complicated."_

_ Arthur snorted. He knew Merlin hated anything fancier than the shirts that Arthur himself preferred – simple, comfortable, and quick to put on. Merlin was that lazy._

_ "Be quick, because actually, there's also a cloak to put on."_

_ "You can put it on yourself," Merlin mumbled. "Honestly, a cloak is not that hard –"_

_ Arthur rapped his knuckles against the back of Merlin's head, and Merlin dropped the shirt._

_ "Ow!" He raised a hand to the back of his head. "What was that for?"_

_ Arthur looked at him pointedly. Merlin rolled his eyes, but there was a smile on his lips when he picked the shirt up again. He stepped forward and slid the shirt over Arthur's raised arms and his head. With a sure hand, he turned Arthur around and set to work on the lacings at his back. For all his complaining, his fingers moved quickly, starting between his shoulder blades and swiftly moving down to the base of his spine. Arthur stood still, eyes half-closed, appreciating the quick succession of light touches._

_ Merlin turned him around again with a gentle pressure applied on his shoulder, and looked up into Arthur's eyes with a small grin. His hands slid down Arthur's torso, smoothing the fabric down, patting off whatever dust there may have been. His touch was firm and sure, as though he was entitled to this, and Arthur watched as his hands slid downwards to rest for just a second too long on Arthur's hipbones, the warmth of his skin seeping through the fabric. The look in Merlin's eyes was indecipherable, and then it was gone and Merlin was backing away, eyes wide, looking like he'd been burnt._

_ "So." Arthur cleared his throat. "Does it... 'make me look good?'"_

_ He tried to make his tone teasing, wanting to bring that warm, open look back in Merlin's eyes, but Merlin looked away from him and said, dismissively, "You'll do, I suppose."_

_ Arthur snorted despite himself. "Thank you."_

* * *

"I wish I could have been there at your coronation," Merlin says softly. "I wanted to see you become king."

Arthur swallows, thinking _You could have seen it if you'd just waited_. He doesn't want to think about his coronation, or the events that had led to it. He doesn't want to think about any of it.

He changes the subject. "Did you know you would survive?"

Merlin gives him a strange, thoughtful look. "I didn't survive, Arthur," he says slowly. "I died, and then I came back."

"But did you know you would?"

"I had... an inkling. I thought I might, because of things that have happened in the past. But..." His free hand rises to touch the bird at his throat. "I didn't really know. That's not why I did it."

He doesn't explain further.

Arthur swallows and, wondering whether he really wants to know the answer, he asks, "Why did you let me do it?"

Merlin is silent for a long moment. Arthur meets his gaze unflinchingly, looking into his blue eyes, wondering how he could ever have thought that Merlin was a threat to him.

"I always thought that when you found out you'd understand," Merlin says finally in a soft voice. "I thought you'd realise that all I did, I did it for you, that I –" He shakes his head, smiling ruefully. "It just seemed like there was no point fighting it. If I can't use it for you, then what good is my magic?"

Arthur wonders how it feels, to be so completely devoted to someone. To have that one person be your reason for living, for fighting. Somehow, he has always known that when Merlin rode out to face the dragon, or insisted on coming along on the most dangerous missions, or held his own against bandits by Arthur's side, it meant something. Something.

He hadn't imagined this.

"I'm sorry." Arthur isn't sure what exactly he's apologising for, but he needs to say it. For everything.

Merlin's smile turns bitter. "Oh, I know you are."

He doesn't say, _So am I_. He doesn't say _So what?_ but Arthur hears it anyway. The sourness in Merlin's tone prompts him to ask:

"Why did you come back to me?"

"Destiny," Merlin says, and Arthur isn't sure what he wanted to hear, but it wasn't that. "I've learnt that it's no use fighting it. You can try to get rid of me all you want, Arthur. I'll always come back, because there's nowhere else for me to go."

"Even after you – I –"

"Always."

There's nothing in Merlin's eyes, no fever, no devotion, no hint of the old affection. Nothing but a hard blankness, a sort of detached honesty. Arthur hates it.  
"But do you _want_ to leave?"

"As much as you want me to leave," Merlin says.

Arthur looks at Merlin. He was so stupidly happy when Merlin came back, so amazed to find him alive, so glad and hopeful when Merlin agreed to serve him again. But there still is and there will always be that resentment between them, the heavy weight of their past.

Looking into Merlin's eyes, Arthur realises how little that matters, how much his heart outweighs his reason in this case. This person.

"I don't ever want you to leave," he says, and he means every word.

Merlin smiles. His eyes soften at the edges, and his tone is different now, almost gentle. "I know."

* * *

When Merlin dresses him for the first time since he came back, his fingers dance across Arthur's back and shoulders and his touch is light and fleeting, almost uncertain. Arthur doesn't comment. He senses the difference, but the fact that Merlin is here at all, after all this time, helping him wit his clothes and armour, is enough for him. And just before Merlin backs away, telling him he's ready, he puts his hand on Arthur's shoulder and presses down firmly, a friendly encouragement, and that – that is more than enough.

Merlin isn't Arthur's manservant again. He can't be; he can't openly follow Arthur around the castle or come when he's called or serve him his food. But he is, more often than not, _there_; concealed in shadows, maybe, but Arthur doesn't care. He just needs the knowledge and comfort of Merlin's presence. And in the evening, when Arthur is tired, Merlin is the one who prepares his bath and is there when he goes to bed. In the morning it's Merlin who drags Arthur out of bed, and even though Arthur has never been a morning person, every time he hears Merlin's voice and his stupid _Rise and shine_, every time he feels the sunlight against his tightly-shut eyes and knows that Merlin has drawn the curtains open, he can't help but smile.

What _is_ it about Merlin? He betrayed Arthur in the worst possible way, and Arthur can't even bring himself to think about it, because the memories are forever entwined with his own unforgivable actions. Arthur desperately wants to return to what they had: the easy friendship, the natural trust.

For a while it works. Arthur pretends there is nothing wrong between them, Merlin doesn't call him on it, and things go as smoothly as they could be expected to. Arthur doesn't throw anything at Merlin, Merlin doesn't call Arthur a dollophead, and all in all their relationship is a lot like what it _should_ be: professional and unassuming. Sometimes Merlin will smile when Arthur is particularly arrogant, and Arthur will struggle not to laugh when Merlin is being stupid. But their banter, the easy, affectionate sharing of insults is gone, and Arthur isn't sure what he can do to get it back. He has to bite his tongue every time a witty retort comes to him, because he feels Merlin might not take it in stride the way he used to. For all that he wants to pretend otherwise, things _are_ different and they both know it.

One day, Merlin throws Arthur a cautious look and says, quietly, "I know we don't talk about this, but you should know I never meant to kill him."

Arthur tenses, a chill running up his spine. It's true, they have never talked about it, and if Arthur has his way they never will. Because – he understands. In a way, he _understands_ why Merlin did it. It doesn't make the betrayal any less harsh, it doesn't make what Merlin did right, but he can understand. His father killed so many of Merlin's kind, that it was more like punishment than revenge. And he passed quietly, peacefully. He wasn't hanged, or beheaded, or – _or burnt alive in front of my eyes_. He was already dying when Merlin got to him. Maybe, in the end, it's better this way. That doesn't mean Arthur is ready to say it out loud just yet.

"It's all right, Merlin."

The words are forced, but Arthur thinks that one day soon, he will be able to say them and believe them to be true. Will be able to forgive Merlin, the way Merlin is trying to forgive him.

"No, it's not," Merlin says. "Arthur, I have to explain –"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Then don't! Just... just _listen_."

And Arthur wants to say, _No, go away, leave me alone_, but he knows now what it's like to be alone, and he knows it's a thousand times worse than anything Merlin can say. So he is silent, and he looks out the window, not wanting to see the hatred in Merlin's eyes as he speaks of Arthur's father.

"I never wanted to kill your father," Merlin says, every word like a new lie sinking right into Arthur's chest. "Over the years, don't you think I had the opportunity? I never took it. I've saved his life more than once, because I knew it would destroy you to lose him."

* * *

_Rage._

_ An unrestrained, explosive anger such as Arthur had never felt before. He was fighting to kill, which was nothing new. But he was also fighting to hurt, to avenge, and that – that was different._

_ Morgause, so understanding. His mother's words rolling around his head, the only thing he could think about. The truth about his conception. The truth about her death. The truth about his father's hatred of magic. The truth to counter all the lies he had been told._

_ He had his father knocked down. A simple forward stab of his sword, and it would be over. It would be revenge. It would be justice._

_ Merlin, bursting into the room, calling his name. The sound of his voice stayed Arthur's hand, made him look up, made him think._

_ "Arthur! Don't! I know you don't want to do this!"_

_ Oh, but he did. He wanted to, with a passion that should have scared him. He had never wanted anything more, had never been so blinded by anger, so utterly convinced that this was what had to be done. He wanted to._

* * *

_ "Arthur, please," Merlin said, his voice strained. "Put the sword down."  
"You heard what my mother said. After everything he has done, do you believe he deserves to live? He executes those who use magic, and yet he has used it himself!" Arthur tightened his grip on his sword and spoke to his father. "You have caused so much suffering and pain. I will put an end to that."_

_ "Morgause is _lying_!" Merlin said, sounding desperate."She's an enchantress. She tricked you. That was not your mother you saw. That was an illusion."_

_ A moment of clarity amidst the blinding rage. Arthur hesitated._

_ "Everything... everything your mother said to you... Those were Morgause's words."_

_ If Merlin's voice hadn't been so faltering, so uncertain, Arthur would have dropped the sword right then._

_ "You don't know that."_

* * *

_ Arthur, falling to his knees, the sword clattering to the ground beside him._

_ "My son, you mean more to me than... than anything."_

_ Arthur, bowing his head, his mind suddenly clear, his body weary from the fight, his throat tight with tears. How could he have...?_

_ "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he said, wondering whether words would ever be enough, whether anything could make his father forgive him for this – treason of the worst kind, from a son to his father._

_ Uther's voice, gentle, tired. "You are not to blame."_

* * *

_ "I am indebted to you, Merlin. I had become...confused. It is once again clear to me that those who practise magic are evil and dangerous. And that is thanks to you."_

* * *

"My mother," Arthur says, suddenly needing to speak, and not just listen. "That was another lie, wasn't it? You lied."

"I had to," Merlin says firmly, unapologetically. "I couldn't let you kill him. You would never have forgiven yourself. Listen, Arthur. When you came to me for help – to Dragoon, I mean... I honestly tried. I tried to save him. The spell I cast, it was a healing spell, I swear."

"And it didn't work?"

Arthur wants to believe it, but it doesn't make sense. Uther died immediately after the spell. It wasn't just inefficient. The spell _caused_ his death.

"Morgana managed to plant a necklace in his rooms. It contained an enchantment that reversed the healing spell and drained his life."

It still doesn't make sense.

"How could Morgana get inside the castle?"

Merlin hesitates. "Agravaine," he says finally. "He's in league with her. I think he has been from the beginning."

Arthur closes his eyes briefly and feels his throat tighten. _Not again_.

Morgana, Merlin, and Gwen. His knights. His father, even, lied to him about both Morgana and his mother. And now Agravaine.

Traitors.

"I know –" Merlin pauses; he swallows audibly. "I know there's no reason for you to believe me. But I swear it's the truth."

"Oh, I believe you," Arthur says bitterly. "Why shouldn't I? Of course he's a traitor. I don't even know why I'm surprised anymore."

"Arthur –"

"Leave me."

Merlin doesn't move. "I never meant to hurt you."

"It's a bit late for that, isn't it?"

Merlin steps forward, hands outstretched, reaching for Arthur, and – Arthur slaps his hand away.

The look on Merlin's face is like Arthur has just struck him across the face.

"_Leave me_," Arthur commands, and for once, Merlin obeys.

* * *

_Merlin, sitting with his back against a tree trunk, grinning stupidly at Arthur like he's trying to be brave. There's a cut high on his left arm, because the idiot forgot to properly protect himself. Probably busy staring off into the distance. He's not losing much blood, but Arthur can't help but worry about infection._

_ "You know you don't actually have to follow me _everywhere_, Merlin, don't you?" Arthur carefully wiped most of the blood away from the wound, ignoring Merlin's wince. "Because I'm starting to think you misread the job contract and somehow got the impression that you're supposed to get into all these fights with me."_

_ "It's not my fault you attract trouble," Merlin shot back. "You must really be a huge prat if people keep trying to kill you so often. You're _lucky_ I'm here to have your back."_

_ Arthur scoffed. "Have my back? _You_?"_

_ "You're such a prat," Merlin said._

_ "I think I'm lucky you're not all I have to rely on during a fight." Arthur dipped his fingers into the jar of salve that he always took from Gaius. It was thick, oily, and had a strange smell, but in his experience nothing else worked quite so well. "God, Merlin, did no one ever teach you that you're not supposed to let the sword cut you?"_

_ "I'm not a knight."_

_ Arthur looked up. "Of course not."_

_ "No," Merlin said. "I mean, I'm not a knight. Compared to you, I'm useless with a sword. The only weapons training I have is what little I've managed to grasp in between being battered by your knights."_

_ "They hardly _batter_ you –"_

_ "Forget it."_

_ Arthur looked back down at Merlin's arm, a little stricken by Merlin's resentful tone. He was gentle as he applied the salve, trying to make his touch into an apology, because – if Merlin could, he would have his back at all times, and he was right. He wasn't a knight. Nor had Arthur ever expected of him half as much as what he did. He would have been content with a half-decent servant, which Merlin was most definitely not. He had never expected to find a friend so loyal he would walk right into death traps with him._

_ "Why do you do it?" he asked quietly. "Why do you always insist on following me?"_

_ "Because I want to."_

_ There was a moment of silence. Arthur, careful not to look up at Merlin's face, ripped a small piece of cloth from the bottom of Merlin's shirt and tied it around the wound, hiding it from view._

_ "Thank you," Merlin said dryly._

_ "You hated that shirt anyway," Arthur said._

_ He sat back down on his heels, raising his eyes to Merlin's face. Merlin's cheeks were flushed, and he was looking down at his arm, tracing the cloth absent-mindedly with his fingers._

_ "Right, that's it," Arthur said. "I'm sending you back to the citadel."_

_ Merlin's eyes snapped to his. "Not going to happen. No."_

_ "That was an order, not a suggestion."_

_ "Right, because I usually obey you without question." Merlin tilted his chin defiantly. "I am _not_ leaving you."_

* * *

Gwen knew. Lancelot knew. Gwaine knew. Hell, every single one of his knights probably guessed, because they have faith in Merlin. They know him well enough to trust him with their lives, and Arthur's as well. The looks, the blame, all of it – this is the reason. Arthur was blinded by anger and grief, and his trust in Merlin was fragile enough to have been shattered with one blow. But the others, they all knew.

The truth hurts, far more than anything else ever did. Because now, confronted with his own actions, Arthur has no excuse, no apology. _"I know why you did what you did. That doesn't make it right,"_ Merlin said, and he was right. Arthur thought he was getting revenge, but Merlin had only done what he told him to do. He thought he was punishing a criminal, but Merlin is innocent. He thought Merlin was a murderer, when he did all he could to save Uther.

And for that, Arthur killed him.

Arthur would rather have lived on thinking that Merlin really was a traitor, than this. He knows he was starting to forgive Merlin, because it's impossible not to forgive him. Facing his own betrayal, on the other hand, seems impossible. The guilt was beginning to fade as Merlin seemed to forgive him; it has now returned with a vengeance, and Arthur can think of nothing but fire and the way Merlin died. Painfully. It's a new wall between them, a new distance that Arthur can't reach across, and though he still sees Merlin every day, he can no longer do it without flinching.

There's also the magic. Arthur isn't sure _why_ – is it meant to be threatening, or just a painful reminder? – but Merlin is always using it around him. If Arthur comes to Merlin's room, he can be sure to find Aithusa there. The rapidly-growing dragon soon won't fit anymore, but as long as he does Merlin keeps him close, and Arthur has several times witnessed Merlin talking in the dragon's tongue. And if it's Merlin in Arthur's room, it's even worse. Merlin seems to need to use magic for every single thing, from straightening out the covers on Arthur's bed to closing the goddamned _door_. Most of the time he doesn't even say a spell, so that Arthur doesn't have to hear the guttural language ripped from his throat; in a way, though, it's more unsettling to see Merlin just make things happen _without saying a word_. He looks at an object, his eyes flash gold for an instant, and then... It's done.

It still sends a shiver up Arthur's spine every time, and he has a feeling Merlin knows it.

He's watching Merlin direct a broom across his room with a small motion of his fingers when Merlin stops abruptly, letting the broom clatter to the floor. He turns to Arthur, and his eyes are blue.

"It was supposed to be yours, you know."

Arthur starts; Merlin rarely instigates a conversation, even now. "What?"

"My magic," Merlin says, stepping closer to Arthur.

Arthur doesn't step away.

"It was always meant to be yours. I was destined for you. Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King." He sounds wistful, his words carrying a meaning Arthur can't understand. "You have no idea what you could have been; what you _should_ have been."

"With you, you mean."

Merlin inclines his head. "We were two sides of the same coin, meant to be united. Useless if we were separated, but together... _Together_," he repeats, a dreamy, far-off look on his face, "we would have been unstoppable. It was meant to be _us_, Arthur. Camelot, Albion, magic – it was supposed to be ours. Our destiny."

Does it have to be too late? Arthur wants that, he _wants_ the vision Merlin has put into his mind, something he has never even considered and yet something that, at its core, is close to Arthur's most cherished hopes – Merlin, by his side, serving and advising him, his constant friend and shoulder to rest on, and if he has to use magic to do that, well. Then he'll use magic. The magic is not a threat.

It was never a threat.

"Maybe we could still –" Arthur begins.

Merlin lays a hand on his shoulder, the touch so intimate and familiar that Arthur can't help but lean into it. The warmth of Merlin's hand seems to seep through the fabric of his shirt.

"You know I'm still yours."

Arthur hears the unspoken, _But you were never mine_. He wants to deny it, but in his heart he _knows_ he could never be Merlin's the way Merlin is so completely, unwaveringly his. Merlin who has sworn himself to Arthur many times over with both actions and words, Merlin who would die at his command even if he apparently can't stay dead, Merlin who has always been willing to die for him, whether Arthur wants it or not. Arthur won't lie to himself: he isn't capable of that sort of devotion. He can't look Merlin in the eye and say _I'm yours, always_, when he's seen what true devotion to one man means. So he looks away.

Merlin makes a small, hurt sound in the back of his throat, and Arthur looks up again sharply, realising he was expecting an answer.

"Merlin, I –"

Merlin shakes his head. "I know," he says. "I always knew. I just... We were meant to be more than this."

"Two sides of the same coin?" Arthur says, turning the words into a question, wondering what they mean. It sounds right, and at the same time it's frightening, like they can't live without each other. Like without Merlin, he's nothing.

Merlin smiles, calm and warm, and the hand does not move from Arthur's shoulder. "I've been told a half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole."

The words are infused with a strange solemnity, and they warm Arthur's heart for he reads into them what he should – that Merlin does not, could never hate him, that maybe he doesn't even resent him. Just as Arthur knows that what he feels for Merlin is so far from hate it's not even funny. Arthur raises a hand to cover Merlin's on his shoulder, and is glad when Merlin does not move away, but instead turns his hand so their palms are pressed together, their fingers entwined.

"If I never hated you, then how could I –"

"We both made a mistake," Merlin says, closing his fingers around Arthur's. "I should have told you."

"I should have listened."

"Are we really talking about this?" Merlin asks, and he's whispering but they're so close that Arthur can hear every word, can practically feel Merlin's breath across his cheek.

"Don't you think we have to?"

Merlin looks right into his eyes, and they're _too_ close. Arthur knows his guilt is laid out plainly for Merlin to see.

"No. I don't. I think _you_ need to talk about it to clear your conscience."

"Is that so wrong?"

"Not really," Merlin says. "But why bother?"

He draws back, letting his hand slip from beneath Arthur's and drop to his side again. Arthur follows it with his gaze, wanting to reach out and take it back.

"Nothing you say will change what happened. And I've told you, I know why you did it."

"But it was _wrong_," Arthur insists.

"And I'm glad you realise that, now."

Merlin looks away, shielding his eyes from Arthur's sight, and Arthur wants to say _Look at me, Merlin, just look at me_.

"They're not exactly my best memories," Merlin says quietly. "And I'd really rather not talk about it."

"I understand that. Really, I do. But –"

"I've forgiven you. I swear, Arthur, I have. And I know you've forgiven me for lying. Can't we just leave it at that?"

"Forgiven _you_?" Arthur is stunned. "Merlin, I don't even care –"

"Then can't you trust that it's the same for me?"

Arthur stares at him, and wants to ask how a secret that Merlin had every reason to keep is supposed to compare to an _execution_, how Merlin can just _forgive him_ and move on, but at that moment Merlin looks at him again. His eyes are blue and warm, and – Arthur's breath catches in his throat, because it's the look he used to give Arthur. The one that Arthur always read too much into, the one that doesn't stop at just friendship and loyalty.

_This is how._

"We can try again," Merlin says gently, like a promise. "We have all of eternity to try again."

"If it isn't too late."

"It's never too late," Merlin says. "Not for us."

He doesn't flinch or move away when Arthur raises a hand to rest lightly against his cheek; instead, he leans into the touch, letting Arthur draw his fingertips across his jaw. Arthur doesn't know what he has done, what deity he has pleased to deserve this. He just knows, deep in his bones, that _this_, somehow, is what he's always wanted, what he's been waiting for without even knowing it. If this is destiny, then he'll follow the path laid out for him without hesitating. He wants to be worthy of it, he wants to say _I'll never hurt you again, I'm so sorry, I'll do anything,_ but the words are stuck in his throat. It doesn't really matter, because he has a feeling Merlin already knows.

Merlin's next words are spoken in a whisper, like a secret shared just between the two of them. "You and I, Arthur – we'll be the stuff of legends."


	11. The World I Built for You

**Thanks so much for everything you said about the last chapter, which apparently was a winner. Supposedly, I won't be able to top it, but I'm working on it!**

**I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. This is set after the episode with the Disir, because I can't get this moment out of my head. I also wanted to explore the reasons Merlin couldn't tell Arthur.  
**

**Notes: **

**- I still have some ideas lined up and I'm definitely not going to stop any time soon, but if they're anything in particular you would like to see in a future chapter, definitely tell me.**

**- After this one, chapters lengths will go back to being more reasonable, as in, a lot shorter. This one is a monster, it starts way before the reveal and ends way after.**

* * *

**Summary:** _If I told you to execute Mordred, would you do it?_ Merlin wondered, losing himself in the blue of Arthur's eyes. _Can I save you like this, even if it damns me?_

* * *

The World I Built For You

* * *

_"So what should we do?"_

One chance. One choice. One decision that could change the course of Camelot's history, change _everything_, and Arthur was asking Merlin to make it. And Merlin couldn't. He knew what he _had_ to say, but he also knew what he _wanted_ to say, and they were two very different things. One way or the other, he would lose something that meant the world to him, forever.

_"Accept magic, or let Mordred die?"_

It felt monumental. It _was_ monumental. Except, really, it wasn't. It wasn't even the first time. Over and over again, Merlin had chosen Arthur over magic, had chosen to follow his king rather than defend his own people. But it always ripped him apart, destroying a part of him that could never be returned, and though he never regretted his decision, there was always a moment, right when he chose, when he felt that he was _wrong_. And every time, Merlin wondered whether he could do it again, if given the chance.

This was the chance, and he still didn't know. He couldn't bring himself to decide. Kilgarrah's words rang in his head, speaking of Mordred's destiny to kill Arthur, advising him to let him die just as he had once told him to let Morgana die. Merlin hadn't listened then, and now Morgana was Arthur's greatest threat. How could he risk making the same mistake again? He knew what had to be done. He knew Mordred had to die, but at what cost? Why did it have to be _this_ choice – between the one thing Merlin most wanted, and the one person he could never bear to lose? Oh, he knew, he already knew what he would say, because it was inevitable. But he hesitated, because he didn't _want_ to. His hopes and dreams flashed before his eyes, taunting him, tempting him with their beauty. Arthur's acceptance of magic. His slow realisation that it couldn't all be evil. His discovery of Merlin's magic, his _forgiveness_. Honesty between them at last. Merlin could have all that if he said the right words now, and he _wanted_ to. It was selfish, but he desperately _wanted_ to. All he had ever dreamt of, dangled in front of him like bait, and he _couldn't take it_.

He blinked, feeling the sting behind his eyes and knowing that he couldn't let Arthur see him cry. Arthur would suspect, and that – that couldn't happen. Merlin had made his choice, because there had never really been a choice. It was Arthur, always Arthur. It could only ever be Arthur. But did it have to be so painful? Did it have to hurt so much, to give all you were to a single person?

Arthur's eyes were on him, already narrowed, not with suspicion but concern._ Oh, Arthur._ He wasn't an idiot, but sometimes Merlin resented him for being so _blind_. How did he not see what he was doing, how did it come to be that the one to hurt Merlin so deeply, to torture him so mercilessly, was the one person he would do anything for?

He wanted to say, _I can't do this, please don't make me, anything but this_.

He choked down tears and made his voice as flat, as determined as he could.

He said, "There can be no place for magic in Camelot."

* * *

Damned.

Oh, yes, damned. He had damned them all with those words. Nine simple words turned into a death sentence for every single remaining magic user in Camelot. With nine words, he had destroyed all hope, tiny and faint as it may have been, _all hope_ left for them by strengthening Arthur's resolve against magic. He was Emrys, destined to bring magic back to Camelot, to the whole of _Albion_, and instead he had damned them all. And for what? For the sake of a king who would never accept them. To prevent a future that might never have come to pass. To ensure the death of a knight who hadn't yet had the opportunity to be faithless. Merlin's decision, Merlin's betrayal; and now, a well-deserved punishment.

They started the ride back home in silence, their tongues weighted down with guilt. Merlin could tell Arthur was thinking of what he could say to his knights when they returned. _I'm sorry, I couldn't save him_ would be a lie. _I chose not to_ would get stuck in his throat because Arthur wouldn't be able to admit to what he had done. What _they_ had done. Signed the death sentence of a knight who was scarcely more than a boy.

It would hit Arthur hard, when Mordred died. He _liked_ Mordred, and knowing that he could have prevented his death – knowing that Mordred had taken a spear meant for _him_ – would be torture to his pride, his honour, but also his heart. Riding back to Camelot was difficult enough; in the saddle, he sat with his spine rigid, his jaw clenched and his chin tilted up, as though trying to defy the crushing weight of guilt on his shoulders. Or maybe as though trying to fight back tears.

Merlin was fractured enough already, but he wanted nothing more than to offer to shoulder some of Arthur's pain, to say, _Give it to me, I can take it, I'm used to it_, because he had done this for _Arthur's_ sake and it would kill him if Arthur resented him for it. But he said nothing, and the silence between them grew thick and suffocating, full of blame and regret. Arthur was already mourning Mordred, and as much as Merlin tried to focus on the vision Lochru had shown him, that vivid, terrifying vision of Mordred thrusting his sword into Arthur, of Arthur _dying_, another image kept leaping to the forefront of his mind: Mordred, taking the spear meant for Arthur. How could _Mordred_ be a traitor?

When Merlin quickly dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and it came back down wet, Arthur noticed. He wasn't quite blind enough not to, or maybe Merlin wasn't quite a good enough liar to hide it; either way, Arthur saw.

"It's too late to be having second thoughts," he said bitingly, and in that sentence, that tone, Merlin felt all the scorn and blame Arthur held for the both of them, for the choice that _they_ had made.

Merlin set his jaw and looked straight ahead. "It was the right decision."

It had to be. Because if it wasn't, if this had all been for nothing, then – Merlin closed his eyes, and the vision was back. Mordred, turning against Arthur. Mordred, Arthur's bane.

"We did the right thing, Arthur."

"Oh, no," Arthur said. "We didn't."

And they hadn't.

* * *

Merlin would never forget the moment when he saw Mordred waiting for them on the steps of the castle, cloak swirling, his eyes shining and happy, a slow grin tugging at the corners of his lips as they approached. He moved easily, as though the wound had never existed at all, and he practically glowed with health.

The shock was harsh and sudden enough to knock the breath out of Merlin. Arthur gasped beside him and stared, disbelief etched across his features. Dismay settled deep in Merlin's stomach, lancing through his heart even as Arthur began to smile, hope flaring in his eyes as he dismounted and practically ran up to Mordred, reaching out to touch his youngest knight with an eagerness that didn't suit a king. Merlin watched, unmoving, as Arthur exchanged a few quick words with Mordred, and then gathered the knight into a quick, one-armed hug, laughing from sheer joy. And Mordred returned the hug with a strength that an injured man had no right to have, the happiness in his own expression making him look like a child. A child who would be Arthur's downfall, because now Merlin _understood_. Horror crept up inside him, numbing his chest with a terrifying coldness.

It had never been a choice between magic and Arthur's life, because the two were entwined. _Arthur_ was supposed to bring magic back to the land, and Merlin had stopped him from doing it. And as punishment, the Disir had let Mordred live, knowing what his destiny was. Mordred would live to kill Arthur, and it was Merlin's fault. He had chosen this, he had made this happen.

It was _Arthur_ he had condemned.

* * *

Merlin didn't sleep that night. He lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the accusingly loud beating of his heart and the harsh whispers of the wind. If he closed his eyes, if he even dared to blink, then the flash of that horrible vision would come back to him, and a mind-numbing horror would grip at his heart and refuse to let go. If he allowed his mind to drift away, he was not pulled into a merciful sleep, but instead his thoughts would turn immediately to the sorcerers he had condemned with a few cold words, wrenched from him against his heart's judgement, and guilt would coil painfully around his gut. So it was Arthur he thought of. Arthur, for whom he had sacrificed everything. Everything, and it still wasn't enough.

What did destiny want from him? What more could he give?

* * *

He came to Arthur's rooms a good half-hour too early the next day, because listening to his own thoughts was driving him mad. He was shocked to find Arthur already awake and out of bed, sitting on a chair by the window, looking out into the courtyard. He wasn't dressed, which might have pulled a half-hearted smile from Merlin if he hadn't also looked like death. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles, his face pale, his eyebrows drawn together as though he were facing a difficult problem. He looked up when Merlin entered – looked straight at him, even, but without appearing to see him. There was no flicker of recognition across his expression, no smile to greet Merlin, nothing.

"You look awful," was the first thing Merlin said.

Arthur did smile then, but there was something off about it. "Thank you, Merlin."

"Didn't you sleep last night?"

"Not really," Arthur said. He looked like he was about to add something, but then he closed his eyes and slumped back into the chair. He waved his hand. "Light a fire, would you?"

"At this hour? Are you serious?" Merlin frowned. Arthur was a prat, but not usually this much of a prat. "But I'll have to go get wood down at the –"

"_Merlin._" Arthur's voice was thin, as though ready to break at any moment, and that, more than anything, alarmed Merlin. "Just do as I say for once, please."

"Are you cold? It's not even cold –"

Arthur's eyes snapped open, and they were so wide and empty that Merlin stepped back.

"Of course, sire," he said. "Fire, coming right up."

* * *

"Are you all right, sire?" Merlin asked when the fire was crackling joyfully in Arthur's fireplace. "If you're not feeling well, maybe Gaius –"

"I'm not ill." Arthur's voice was firm, his words final.

"Then what is it?"

Arthur gave Merlin a speculative look, and it seemed to Merlin like his king's gaze pierced right through his skin, baring all of his secrets with one sweeping look. Merlin suppressed a shiver, meeting Arthur's eyes as steadily as he could.

Then Arthur looked away, exhaling a small breath that could almost have been conceived as a sigh. "Dress me."

Merlin hesitated for a moment, but Arthur said nothing more, and reluctantly he headed for the wardrobe. He went through Arthur's clothes for a while before setting aside a red shirt that looked identical to three other red shirts in the wardrobe, and a random pair of trousers.

"This any good?"

"Yes, fine," Arthur said, without so much as glancing his way.

Merlin rolled his eyes and returned to Arthur's side, swiftly working Arthur's nightclothes off him. Arthur was uncharacteristically quiet and easily malleable beneath his touch, moving into position like woodwork when Merlin pressed against his arms. He made no disparaging comment about Merlin's slowness, or his lack of care in handling his clothes, or his fingernails unwittingly scratching across the royal skin. He said nothing at all, in fact, except a quiet "Thank you" when Merlin withdrew.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Merlin asked, now concerned.

Arthur raised his eyes to him, then quickly looked away. "No," he said. "If you must know, I'm not. I – there's something I –" He hesitated for a moment, then swore softly. "I can't even say it."

"Arthur," Merlin said, a strange feeling of foreboding settling in the pit of his stomach. "Are you sure you're not overrea –"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said quietly. His eyes were dull and unfocused; he looked as if all the energy had been sucked out of him.

Merlin waited, though he desperately wanted to speak. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He watched Arthur with growing anxiety, wondering whether anything he could do would help. Arthur took in several deep breaths, steadying himself. When he spoke again his voice was steady and decisive.

"There's something I need to talk to you about."

Merlin's blood ran cold. The sudden lack of familiarity between them, the awkwardness, the anguished look in Arthur's eyes... Could he have – could he – _No_. Not after all this time. Not now. It couldn't be.

"I'm listening," Merlin said cautiously, trying to hide the slight shake in his voice.

Arthur moved away from him, walking slowly to the fire. He settled into a chair in front of the fireplace and looked down at the floor at his feet before speaking.

"You don't like Mordred much, do you?"

It was so far from what Merlin had been expecting that he almost laughed with relief. He checked himself in time, but for a moment he couldn't answer. He didn't know what Arthur wanted to hear. He didn't even know what _he_ wanted to say, because the truth was, he _did_ like Mordred. The kid was likeable – kind, selfless, almost innocent in a way. He had taken a spear for Arthur. He was a sorcerer in the heart of Camelot, someone Merlin desperately wanted to relate to. He _wanted_ to trust Mordred, to share things with him he couldn't share with anyone else. But he couldn't. Kilgarrah's words haunted him, and he couldn't look at Mordred without seeing what the seer had shown him. And he couldn't allow that to happen.

"Merlin?" Arthur didn't sound irritated, only curious.

"I don't really... know him."

"But you don't trust him."

Merlin hesitated. He couldn't _tell_ Arthur that he thought Mordred would be his death. But lying now (lying again) and reinforcing Arthur's trust in his youngest knight – what good would that do?

"No, I don't."

Arthur nodded, unsurprised. "I thought it was because of Morgana. That you were suspicious because of how close they used to be. But it's more than that, isn't it?"

Merlin didn't say anything, didn't even dare breathe. Arthur blew out the smallest of sighs and looked into the fire, the flames casting strange, beautiful shadows across his face.

"It's because... because he has magic, isn't it?"

* * *

Time stopped, so completely that Merlin could have believed his magic had reacted instinctively. His breath caught in his throat and he froze, staring at Arthur. How did Arthur _know_? Could he tell?

"Merlin." Arthur's voice was low, expectant.

Merlin started. "Sorry. I just..." He blinked. "What did you say?"

Arthur raised his eyes to Merlin's face, scanning his expression. Merlin tried not to flinch, but failed. What if Arthur could _see_? But Arthur's eyes were swimming with confusion, not accusation. Merlin wanted to reach out and comfort him, and he might have if it hadn't been for the bitter line of Arthur's mouth when he suddenly looked away.

"So you did know," Arthur said, his shoulders slumping, and _that_ was what he had been looking for in Merlin's expression. "You knew. What you told me, the night before I talked to the Disir. _'There can be no place for magic in Camelot.'_ You meant Mordred, didn't you? You meant for me to let him die. Because you knew."

Merlin thought about denying it. Arthur hadn't seen through his lies until now, and one more might go unnoticed. But in the end he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not completely, at least.

"He's a druid." Merlin shrugged. "It wasn't much of a leap."

"I didn't realise..." Arthur looked away again. "He's just so _young_."

"He's not the child you saved."

"The child _I_ saved? That was your idea, Merlin."

Oh, yes. It had been his idea. It seemed that Merlin was destined to create Arthur's worst enemies. Mordred was his fault, as was Morgana. He could have redeemed or killed either of them; instead he was the one who had embittered Morgana and turned her against Arthur. He would be damned before he let it happen again.

"He was only a child," Merlin said softly, thinking back to the silent boy with wide eyes and the most serious expression he had ever seen. "He deserved a chance." He still believed that, even now. "How did you find out?"

"I didn't." Arthur pressed his hands together, steepling his fingers. He bowed his head so that his features were hidden from Merlin. "I would never have suspected."

A second before Arthur said it, Merlin _knew_. He guessed. Even if it hadn't been written all across Arthur's expression, the sudden pain in Merlin's gut made it clear.

"He told me."

Merlin stopped breathing. He couldn't help the pain and jealousy that flared up in his chest, mixed with a sort of bitterness that he knew exactly how to explain.

"He told you," Merlin repeated, his voice an octave higher than it usually was, sounding perilously close to cracking, because this was all wrong. It should have been _him_. "Mordred told _you_. When? Why?"

"Last night," Arthur said. "He pulled me aside. Said that he had me to thank for being alive, and that he owed me the truth. Something about destiny, and then –" He shook his head tightly. "I don't know, Merlin. He just told me."

"Just like that."

Merlin's voice sounded hollow even to him, because he couldn't bring himself to force any sympathy into it. He only felt a strange sort of loss, as though the moment he had waited for for years had finally come to pass, and he'd missed it. And beyond that, all around it really, was a renewed fear that Arthur had _guessed_. Not about Mordred. About him.

"Why are you telling _me_?"

"Why do you think?" Arthur replied.

Merlin's eyes shot to Arthur, but his king wasn't even looking at him. His eyes were half-closed, and he seemed to be worlds away. So it wasn't _that._ Merlin felt himself relax, and at the same time disappointment settled in the pit of his stomach.

"What did you do to Mordred?"

Arthur was silent, and in that silence Merlin could practically taste his guilt and regret. His heart sped up, and his breath came in shallow bursts.

"What did you do?" he repeated.

"What do you think?"

Arthur wouldn't look at him. The fingers of his right hand curled inwards, forming a tight, white-knuckled fist.

"Arthur." Merlin fought to keep his voice steady. "What did you do?"

"Does it matter?" Arthur asked. "You would have had the Disir kill him. Why do you care now?"

That was the beautiful irony of it, pointed out so clearly by Arthur. Only hours previously Merlin would have given anything to know he had made the right choice, and that Mordred would never be a danger to Arthur. And now? Now he didn't know what he wanted to hear, but he knew he was afraid of what Arthur might say. He cared, and a part of him desperately wished that –

"I didn't do anything," Arthur said quietly, like he was ashamed, and maybe he was. "All right? I didn't do _anything_. He's still in the castle, probably in his room at this hour."

And was that good news, or bad news? Why did it hurt so much? Why did Merlin feel like someone had punched him, and then shoved him aside without a second thought?

"He confessed to sorcery." Merlin swallowed with difficulty. "He confessed, and you... you let him go."

"He hasn't really _gone_ anywhere," Arthur said defensively.

Merlin stared at the back of Arthur's head. The silence between them was thick with tension, full of confusion and hurt, and Merlin wasn't sure how he should feel. Disappointed that Mordred would live (and live, and live), or relieved that Arthur hadn't turned on him for having magic? Merlin hadn't dared to hope in a long time, but now that old hope, that beautiful, terrible hope came back to him, sweet and tempting and dangerous.

"You let him go," he repeated, unable to keep the awe from his voice. "And... that's it?"

He watched the muscles in Arthur's shoulders tense and heard his breath hitch slightly. Then Arthur lowered his head in defeat and said, his voice barely audible:

"I don't know. Merlin, I... don't know what to do."

And still, that hope – but Merlin forced himself to ignore it.

"The law –"

"I know what the law says," Arthur snapped. "I think I know better than you do. I didn't tell you so you could quote the law to me. I want to know what _you_ think."

Merlin felt his stomach drop. Here it was again, the same choice that he had messed up only hours, days before – magic, or Mordred's death? Magic, or Arthur's life? And he knew, he knew what it had to be. Arthur, every single time.

But what if he made a mistake? What if he guided Arthur towards the same choice as before, and it was still the wrong choice? Was this a second chance, an opportunity to right a wrong?

"What I _think_," Merlin repeated, stalling for time. "I'm not very good at thinking."

"Yes, I realise that."

Arthur was silent for a moment, as though waiting for him to say something, but Merlin's mind was racing, and he still came up blank.

"You knew he had magic, and you don't trust him, but you didn't think to tell me." There was no blame in Arthur's tone, but Merlin wished he could see his face so he could know what he was thinking. "Why? Why would you keep it from me? You know protecting a sorcerer is treason, Merlin. Treason to your king."

Merlin inhaled sharply, jerking back as though Arthur had hit him. His elbow connected painfully with the table behind him and he swore under his breath, but the pain was nothing compared to the panic that coursed through him, tinged with bitter irony, because – oh, how ironic it _would_ be, if Merlin were condemned for treason for _protecting_ Mordred!

Arthur rose from his seat, turning slowly to face Merlin, and it was Merlin who flinched away from his gaze.

"That's why I didn't do anything," Arthur said quietly. "I realised you knew, and you hadn't said anything. And I thought, _He must have a good reason_. Because you wouldn't just keep something like that from me. There has to be a reason."

Arthur's eyes were piercing, but Merlin's throat was too dry for any words to come out, if he had been able to find anything to say.

"Merlin. Tell me there's a reason."

Merlin swallowed. This was the closest Arthur had come in many months to expressing how much he trusted Merlin, and every time, it sliced through Merlin like a sword strike. He was asking Merlin to justify his trust, and Merlin... Merlin couldn't say, _I didn't tell you about Mordred's magic because he would have told you about mine_.

"Merlin?"

Doubt crept into Arthur's tone for the first time, turning Merlin's name into a question, almost a plea. _Please tell me you're not a liar. Please tell me I can trust you. Please just say it..._

"I..." Merlin's mind was racing. "I should have told you."

"But you didn't."

There it was, finally; a hint of accusation in Arthur's voice. _Why? Why would you lie?_

"No, I didn't. I... I couldn't."

Arthur watched him carefully, and Merlin forced himself to meet his gaze. His pulse had reached an unbelievable speed, his heart thudding in his ribcage so loudly he felt certain Arthur could hear it from where he was standing. Arthur wouldn't ask again, but if Merlin didn't answer, he would think... He would think Merlin was a traitor. But what could Merlin say, what lie could he come up with that would reassure Arthur? He was trapped. If he confessed – well, that had never been an option. But if he lied, then Mordred still had power over him. Mordred could reveal his secret at any moment now. And then it would all have been for nothing, and Arthur would never trust him again. Merlin bit down on his lower lip worriedly. Any decision he made would be wrong. He took a breath to steady himself, thinking, _Oh gods, why does it always have to be so hard?_

Something flickered in Arthur's expression. "Are you – are you _scared_? Of _me_?" He sounded amazed.

"Well," Merlin said, relieved by this brief change of subject, "I did just confess to a crime."

"But I'm not – I wouldn't –" Arthur seemed to struggle with himself. "You can _tell_ me, Merlin. I won't arrest you. You know that, don't you?"

As though that were reassuring. As though Merlin cared about Arthur's cells, which were easier to break out of than to get into. As though the law were the only thing Merlin feared. He wanted to say, _Gods, you are such an idiot._

He said, "You can't bend the law so it suits your purposes."

"But I _can_ decide to whom I give my pardon. And if I think your reasons were justified –"

"There was no reason," Merlin said forcefully, swallowing the truth that he desperately wanted to shout out. The lie tasted sour on his tongue, but he had to say it. "I just... didn't want to tell you."

Arthur's gaze bore into Merlin's, hard and unyielding. "You expect me to believe that."

"It's the truth."

"No, it isn't." Arthur turned around again, leaning his forehead against the fireplace. "Not your best lie, Merlin."

Merlin felt it like a dagger sliding smoothly into his gut, the pain radiating as though from an open wound. He had lost it, lost what he'd fought for for so many years. Arthur's trust.

It had been years, but it never got any easier to lie. Still, what was one more? He forced it out through clenched teeth.

"I'm _not_ lying."

Arthur spun around, so quickly that Merlin stepped back in surprise, the edge of the table jamming painfully into his lower back. Arthur's mouth was a thin straight line, tense at the corners, and the look in his eyes was so wild that Merlin thought, for a second, that he might actually hit him. But Arthur only stared at him for a moment, eyes wide and searching – and then his shoulders slumped, he blew out the smallest of sighs, and all the energy seemed to go out of him again.

"Forget it," Arthur said, sounding disappointed. "Let's say I believe you. Let's say I'm stupid enough to trust you."

"Arthur," Merlin began, because it _hurt_, it hurt _so much_ to hear Arthur speak like this, "Arthur, don't –"

"Let's just _say_, Merlin. Just imagine. If I _did_, if I believed you, I would ask you: What would you do with Mordred?"

Merlin's breath caught. _Oh, Arthur, _why_?_ Because this, oh, _this_ was something Merlin couldn't ever return. There was nothing Merlin wouldn't have done for Arthur, a hundred times over, without even thinking of it, but this? Asking Arthur's help in making a decision required, no, it _implied_ trust and honesty, and Merlin had neither. Merlin had nothing.

"Arthur, I don't think –"

"You can lie," Arthur said firmly, looking right at him. "You can lie to me if you want to, if it makes you feel better. I just don't want you to think I'm stupid enough to believe you. Don't say you're not the right person to ask, because you're the only person I _can_ ask. You're the only person, right now, whose opinion I want to hear. So you can either tell me the truth or lie about it, but don't you dare tell me I shouldn't be asking you because I _know_, and I'm asking anyway. What do you think I should do?"

Merlin looked at Arthur, and Arthur looked at Merlin. _Arthur, I have no idea._

This was Mordred, destined to be Arthur's death. Mordred whom Merlin had hoped to see die. But how could he encourage Arthur to execute someone for the crime of sorcery, when he couldn't stop drawing parallels between Mordred and himself? Arthur trusted Mordred, to some degree; beyond that, he _liked_ the kid. One day, Arthur might find out about Merlin's magic, and then he would remember this day and – and if Merlin told him to execute Mordred now, then Arthur would remember that.

_ If I told you to execute him, would you do it?_ Merlin wondered, losing himself in the blue of Arthur's eyes. _Can I save you like this, even if it damns me?_

"Merlin."

Arthur's voice was only a murmur, but it snapped Merlin out of his thoughts as surely as a shout. He shivered, reluctantly pulling his gaze away from Arthur's. He hated this, hated every second of it – the shattered trust, the impossible conflict, the pain in Arthur's voice.

"Is he a traitor?" Arthur asked. "Is he a danger to me?"

Merlin fought not to look at Arthur, because he would see the lie in his eyes. "I don't know."

Arthur was silent for a moment, and then his voice cut through the air, deadly quiet. "You're lying again. Why are you lying? What are you hiding? What _is_ it, Merlin? Why can't you just _tell_ me?"

Merlin had to force the words out, and his voice came out rougher than it usually was. "There's nothing to tell. I didn't tell you because you wouldn't have believed me. A servant's word against a knight's – when has that ever been worth anything?"

"You're not serious." There was anger now in Arthur's voice, because anger was his defence against hurt. "You can't be serious. You know I'd have believed you!"

"Like you're believing me now, you mean?" Merlin challenged.

_ Oh, gods._ This hurt, so damn much. Even though it was Arthur he was hurting, he felt the backlash of it a thousand times over.

"That's not fair," Arthur said, but he sounded somewhat subdued. "It's only because you're lying. You never used to lie to me."

Merlin laughed, the sound ripped from him by the irony of this whole conversation as well as that last, impossibly naive sentence, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Arthur recoil, hurt flashing across his features. _I've lied more times than you can imagine, and one day, you'll know. And you'll hate me for it._

"Okay," Arthur said, sounding stunned. "Okay. I see."

Merlin immediately felt bad – worse, even, than before. "Arthur, I –"

"What can it be? Why can't you tell me? It's only me."

Merlin gave a harsh, bitter laugh, finally raising his eyes to Arthur's. "Yes, and you're _only_ the king of Camelot."

Pain again, flashing across Arthur's expression so quickly Merlin only just barely caught it.

"God," Arthur said, backing away until his back hit the side of the fireplace, "is that it? All these years, and that's it? I'm_ only_ the king."

"That's not how I meant it –"

"Then how _did_ you mean it, Merlin? Because that's how it came out. You don't trust me, you don't even – don't even –" Arthur swallowed. "_Only_ the king," he repeated, giving a bitter laugh. "You must be the only person in Camelot able to make that sound so insulting."

"Arthur, you're taking this the wrong away. When have I ever cared about your title? I only meant, there are some things I can't tell you because –" Merlin searched frantically for an explanation – "because you're the king and I'm a servant. It's got nothing to do with you, or us. It's just the way things are."

"But that's it," Arthur said. "That's exactly it. You're _not_ just a servant. With you, I'm not a king. I'm... well..." He hesitated. "I'm..."

"A prat?" Merlin suggested, and maybe it was the wrong time to joke, but it felt good to, just for a second, slip back into their habits.

Arthur flashed the briefest of smiles; it was gone in a fraction of a second. "Just tell me, Merlin."

"I... I wish I could," Merlin said. "Believe me, Arthur, I want to."

"So you're asking me to trust you, even though you don't trust _me_."

"It's not like that."

"It is, though."

They stared at each other, saying nothing.

"Look," Merlin said eventually. "Mordred has done nothing to harm you, at least not yet. I'm sure of that. I don't know anything else. And I'm not going to decide for you what you're going to do, because that's not my place and we both know it."

"I'm not asking for an _order_, Merlin. Just an opinion. Your advice. It would still be my decision, in the end."

Merlin bit his lip.

"Is it the magic?" Arthur asked. "Are you not sure about magic? Is that why you didn't say anything about Mordred?"

"Arthur, just... please. Let it go."

"It is, isn't it?" Arthur sounded thoughtful. "I've never been able to tell, with you. Whenever magic is involved, you get this... this _look_ in your eyes. I don't think I've ever seen you really afraid, but sometimes, when we speak of magic, I almost think..." He trailed off. "I've wondered. But there was Will. You never feared him, only feared _for_ him."

"Will was my friend," Merlin said roughly, remembering laughter and fights and pranks and the first person he had ever willingly revealed his magic to. A person who had taken that secret to the grave. "He would never have hurt me."

"But he was a sorcerer."

There was, still, doubt and accusation in that single word. _Sorcerer._ It hit Merlin so strongly he almost reacted and said, _Will never had magic, he wasn't what you think, and actually you would have liked him_, except – Will had lied to Arthur for him, and he wouldn't act like that had been worth nothing.

And, really, he was fairly sure Will and Arthur would have hated each other even if they'd met in different circumstances.

"Yes," he said instead, thinking this was one of the hardest lies yet. "Will had magic."

"So you don't think all magic is evil."

_ Oh._

Merlin closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer up to the heavens – _gods, give me strength, let this be the right answer_.

"I don't think it corrupts." He hesitated. _Please..._ "I don't think it has to be evil, no."

"What about Morgana?"

Merlin breathed in sharply. They hardly ever spoke about _her_. For the both of them, the memories were still too sore, the wounds only half-healed, the pain still raw. There was just too much Arthur didn't know, and Merlin couldn't say. Didn't even _want_ to say, because it would make his guilt real.

"It wasn't the magic that changed her," Merlin said carefully. "It was her fear and her anger." _And your father's lies and stupid laws_.

"So you're saying the law is wrong," Arthur said, as though hearing his thoughts. "You think sorcery shouldn't be a crime."

"I didn't say that."

"No, you didn't. In fact, you said the exact opposite, last time we spoke about it."

_ There can be no place for magic in Camelot._ Even as he'd said the words, Merlin had felt the guilt settling on his shoulders. He had tried to tell himself it was his burden to bear, his sacrifice, but in truth, with a single sentence, he had condemned all the sorcerers still residing, still hiding within the kingdom. He had destroyed their last hope, extinguished their final chance, all for the sake of a king who would never know how much he mattered.

"You're a riddle, Merlin. Sometimes you're _simple_, and other times..." Arthur looked at him intently. "Other times, you just don't make sense. All these years, and this is one of the first times I've managed to get you to say a word about what you think about magic. And even now, you contradict yourself with every word. What is it? Having a hard time keeping track of your lies, are you?" The bitterness was creeping back into his tone, and Merlin hated it. "I just want the truth. Is that really too much to ask?"

_ You have no idea. Arthur, you just have no idea._

"I'm asking you because I don't _know_, Merlin. Magic is everything I've learnt to hate. It's taken everyone I love away from me, but sometimes, I can't help but think..." Arthur clamped his mouth shut, something strange flashing in his eyes; abruptly, he asked, "Did you know Gaius told me the sorcerer tried to save my father?"

Merlin started. "He what?"

"Dragoon. I thought he killed him, but Gaius said... Gaius said there were sorcerers who were on my side and wished me no harm. Has he told you about any of that?"

"He might have mentioned it once or twice."

The corners of Arthur's mouth curled downwards. "And you never said a word."

Merlin had to force himself to look away. This was _too hard_, he had never signed up for this, never wanted it, but if it was destiny, then what choice did he have? _Oh, Arthur, forgive me._

"I didn't think it was worth saying."

"Right," Arthur said, something new in his tone now, sharp and decisive. "Right. Of course. Well – I don't want to be late."

_Late for what?_ Merlin knew Arthur's schedule better than Arthur did, and there was nothing urgent that morning. He looked up, and saw Arthur moving towards the door, his back turned to Merlin, obviously intending to leave. And he didn't look like he wanted Merlin to follow, either.

"Arthur, wait."

Arthur's hand remained pressed against the door, ready to push it open, but he turned his head to look back at Merlin. His body was still and tense, his expression expectant, and his eyes watchful, guarded.

Merlin said, "I'm sorry."

Arthur smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I know."

The door swung open, and Arthur was gone.

* * *

Merlin waited in Arthur's room for a full half-hour, staring so hard at the floor that he might have bored a hole into it with the power of his mind if he had been there any longer. Arthur clearly didn't want him around, and he hadn't even taken the time to dish out the list of orders he usually gave Merlin – _change the linens, clear up the table, polish my boots, take this, fetch that, do this, do that and for God's sake don't forget this_. So he sank down to his knees on the floor and sat there, hands resting in his lap, eyes determinedly unblinking because he was _not_ crying.

Damned again, then. Oh, he was getting better at this.

He had had the words to sacrifice Mordred, only to find himself unable to voice them. He had tried to defend magic, only to have his lies thrown back to his face. He had tried to leave _something_ of his relationship with Arthur intact, but that had always been the most stupid, unlikely desire of all, and of course he had only ended up hurting him instead. It felt like everything that could possibly have gone wrong had done exactly that. The worst was that this time, he hardly knew why he had lied.

Arthur had been hurt and confused, but he had _wanted_ Merlin's opinion. He had been willing to give him a chance to explain, and if Merlin had said the truth, then maybe, just maybe... Well. Arthur had _listened_ to him say that all magic wasn't evil, and the sky hadn't crashed down around them. Maybe he had been ready to hear the whole truth, maybe not. Either way, he would have listened if Merlin had told him, there and then, that Mordred was dangerous. But then Merlin would have had to explain how he knew, and that was the tricky bit. He couldn't say anything about Kilgarrah, or about a dying druid showing him a vision, because he would have to explain so much more and that, _that_ was what would shatter Arthur's trust in him completely. So he had lied, selfishly – about Will, about Mordred, and about himself. But his selfishness hadn't even brought an instant of self-gratification.

Over the years the lies had never, and probably never would, come easily to him, but it frightened him how often they seemed to slip from him these days. Each lie was like a tiny crack in his friendship with Arthur, slowly eroding the trust between them, and he knew, he just knew that one day it would all come crumbling down, and he would be lucky if there was anything left to salvage because he had spent years ensuring that there wouldn't be. It was like taking apart the thing that mattered most to him, and trying to hold it together with nothing more than wishes.

Merlin sucked in a breath, harsh and shuddering. If he was honest with himself (if he even remembered what it meant to be honest), the one thing that hurt the most, right now, were the three words Arthur had spoken and which hadn't stopped running through Merlin's mind since, over and over again, endlessly repeating themselves. _"He told me."_ Because Merlin – so many times over the past eight years Merlin had come _so close_ to confessing, but the moment had been lost every time, because a part of him never wanted Arthur to know. It was a small, selfish part, a part that wanted desperately to never lose the way Arthur looked at him (except he had already lost it) – like he was an idiot, but also someone to be protected, and someone Arthur trusted – but it was a strong part. It had been months, now, since Merlin had last contemplated telling Arthur, had last allowed himself to fantasise about how it might go. And then Mordred had come along, and he had just _told_ Arthur. And Arthur hadn't arrested him. Hadn't executed him. Hadn't even been _angry_ with him, and gods, that hurt. His anger had been directed at Merlin, for lying, and not at Mordred, for telling the truth.

Merlin was done. There was nothing more he could do now. He had endangered everything and achieved nothing; it was in Arthur's hands now. Merlin could only watch what happened next.

He pulled himself to his feet.

* * *

What happened next was that Arthur didn't do anything.

He didn't speak to Merlin again, not about that. He didn't arrest Mordred, or change the way he treated him. He didn't revise the laws on magic, and he didn't tell another soul about Mordred. He did _nothing at all_. Every day Merlin woke up thinking, _It's today_, and every day nothing happened. Nothing. Things didn't change, and it was killing Merlin, because _everything_ had changed.

He had, after so many years, a hint of what Arthur's reaction to his magic might have been, if he'd ever had the courage to tell him. Confusion, yes, and certainly a good deal of hurt and anger, but willingness to listen, to try to understand, to forgive; that was what Arthur seemed to be giving Mordred. And at the same time he also had a taste of what the opposite reaction could be – distrust, anger, and the silent treatment Arthur was giving him almost without intending to. It was discreet enough; of course Arthur _had_ to speak to him several times a day. But he only did so when necessary, wasting no time for jokes or teasing, and Merlin felt the loss sorely. Most disturbing of all, though, were the thoughtful, appraising glances Arthur kept shooting at him when he thought Merlin wasn't looking (except Merlin was always, always looking). Merlin could practically read the question in his eyes: _What are you hiding?_ And he was deathly afraid that Arthur would figure it out. That fear, as well as the sudden doubt in Arthur's mind about Merlin's loyalty, was enough to create a rift between them, a gap that grew wider with each passing day as Merlin continued to lie, and Arthur didn't pretend to believe him.

And Merlin envied Mordred, because Arthur _knew_ and he still treated him exactly the same as before – with the same laughter, the fond smiles, the teasing. And Mordred took it all, the way he had before, and there was something even lighter about his laugh now. Because Mordred was a good actor, a good liar, but he wasn't _that_ good – not good enough that Merlin didn't see the change in him. Maybe he was destined to be Arthur's end, but right here, right now, he genuinely cared what Arthur thought, and the king's acceptance – or as close to acceptance as it could get – seemed to lighten the burden on his shoulders. It was strange, because he couldn't use magic openly now, not any more than before. He couldn't talk about it. He couldn't even admit to having it, even now that Arthur knew. Nothing about his situation had changed, and yet nothing was the same. Because Arthur knew. Because he had _told_ Arthur.

Something Merlin, in eight years of knowing Arthur, hadn't been able to do.

* * *

Mordred drew him aside three days after his revelation to Arthur. Merlin hadn't spoken to him once since the Disir had spared him, knowing that he couldn't bear to look into Mordred's eyes and know that Arthur forgave him. But he couldn't afford to risk Mordred's antagonism now, when there was nothing keeping the knight from telling Arthur his secret anymore. So when Mordred asked to speak with him after a meal, Merlin only hesitated for a moment before following him outside.

Mordred readjusted his cloak around his shoulders, shivering slightly in the cool evening air. He sat down on the steps outside the castle and motioned for Merlin to do the same. The look he gave Merlin was a little questioning, but otherwise unreadable.

"You know he knows, don't you? He must have told you, even if he told no one else."

"You're lucky to still be alive," Merlin said, tugging anxiously at his neckerchief. "Look, Arthur needs me in the –"

"Arthur will do just fine without you for a few minutes," Mordred cut in. "I think he'll almost be glad."

Merlin winced. It was true. Arthur had almost been avoiding him the past few days – at least, as much as it was possible to avoid one's own manservant.

The smile Mordred offered him was tender and full of understanding, not cruelty. "I think he may be more ready than you know."

"You don't know him," Merlin said forcefully.

"But I know you," Mordred said. "I know you better than any of the knights, better than your king. I know the one thing you've never dared to tell them."

Merlin clenched his hands into fists. "Is that a threat?"

Mordred's blue eyes always appeared cold and detached to Merlin, and Merlin never knew quite how to interpret his words. Part of it was his inherent distrust of the druid; part of it was the fear of discovery that had followed him since he first set foot in Camelot. Now, with Mordred holding this much power over him and Merlin having none, Merlin couldn't help but be on the defensive.

Mordred smiled again, almost wistfully. "I'm trying to tell you that you're not alone, even when you feel like you are. I know you don't trust me – I'm not a fool, Merlin – but you don't have to do it all alone. I could help you, if you wanted. And if you don't... you have Arthur."

Merlin scoffed at that. "You know that isn't true."

"You _could_ have him, if you told him. When I told him –"

"It's not the same," Merlin said sharply. "It's nowhere near the same. You and Arthur –"

He clenched his jaw, shutting his mouth tightly, because there was no way to finish that sentence without revealing too much, either about himself or his vision of Mordred. _You and Arthur will never compare to what I have with him._ And yet didn't they already, if Mordred had trusted Arthur with the truth and Arthur, in exchange, trusted him not to use magic against Camelot?

Mordred looked at him intently, his cold blue eyes boring into Merlin's. "I know. But you could have him, if you risked it. If you were willing to risk it all."

Merlin shook his head wordlessly. He had thought of it; dreamt of it, even. He had imagined a thousand different ways it could go, if he _did_ risk it. But in the end there was only one thing Merlin would risk everything for, and it wasn't magic.

"That's never going to happen." Merlin stood and turned away, intending to put an end to the conversation. He would follow Arthur, whether the prat wanted him to or not. "And I don't see why you should care."

Mordred's hand on his shoulder stopped him, shocking him into silence even as he turned back to face the knight. He couldn't recall the last time they had touched, and somehow it reminded him of things he tried not to think about – how human Mordred was, how young, how good at heart. Merlin looked into Mordred's eyes, and for the first time, he found that the blankness there could also be seen as purity. Innocence. Guilelessness.

"You and Arthur, you saved my life when you went back to the Disir," Mordred said quietly, his voice infused with warmth. "I've thanked him, but I haven't had the chance to thank you yet."

Merlin looked down at the steps, feeling sick, because – gods, he had intended to _kill_ Mordred, not save him. He wanted none of Mordred's gratefulness, or his affection.

"You don't have to."

"I knew you would say that." A pause, and then Mordred spoke again. But not aloud. _You can try to deny it all you want, Emrys, but at heart we are the same._

Merlin's eyes snapped back to Mordred's face. "Don't call me that."

How long had it been since Mordred had last used Merlin's druid name to his face? And now that Merlin thought about it, there had been no mental communication of any sort since he had been knighted, as though Mordred had realised how much both these things unsettled Merlin. It felt like letting someone in on all his secrets, and though Mordred already _knew_, he hated to be reminded of that fact. Having someone he didn't trust hold this much power over him scared him to death if he thought about it too much. The damage Mordred could do with a few well-chosen words to Arthur...

_Fear me, and you fear yourself. Fear yourself, and how can you expect Arthur to trust you?_

Merlin shoved Mordred away from him, forcing the hand off his shoulder. _Don't talk to me!_

Mordred allowed himself to be pushed back, raising his open hands in a gesture of peace and surrender even as his eyes flashed with anger and something wilder, something desperate, passionate, and unbridled.

"But don't you see, Merlin," he said, and those eyes, oh, they weren't cold anymore, they were so far from cold Merlin could barely look into them, "don't you see that this could be _it_? He spared a sorcerer. He hasn't done anything to me, and he's even letting me stay among the knights. Maybe this is how it all _starts_, Merlin. This is the beginning of your destiny. The return of magic to Camelot, what we both want –"

"No," Merlin said forcefully. "No, you're wrong. It can't be. This isn't how it's meant to happen."

It wasn't Mordred. It couldn't be Mordred. _Mordred_ couldn't be the one to make Arthur change, because that was Merlin's job. It didn't matter how much of a mess he'd made of it so far – it was _his_ destiny.

"You're _wrong_," he said again. "This is nothing. This means _nothing_ –"

"Why are you fighting this?" Mordred asked, and still there was that look in his eyes, so great and lost and wanting, and it terrified Merlin. "Why would you fight it, Merlin? This is who you _are_, who you were always meant to be, what you were _destined_ to bring about! You can't deny that you want it, you want Arthur to know you and accept you as much as _I_ want it –"

"_We are nothing alike!_" Merlin shouted, and a burst of power escaped him as he lost his temper, his control over his magic wavering for a split second, just enough to slam Mordred backwards, making him lose his balance and fall harshly back on the step he had been standing on. "Don't compare me to yourself! I'm not like you, I'm _not _–" And he was crying now, tears blurring his vision and making his lips salty, sobs tearing painfully through his throat. "Just stop it, Mordred! Stop getting involved in everything! If you really cared, you'd go back where you came from and never return! You're not the beginning, _you will be the end of it_!"

Through the veil of tears he saw Mordred clearly, lying on his back on the step, propped up on his elbows, his eyes wide, shock clearly written across his features. There was a trickle of blood running down the side of his head, from his temple to a corner of his jaw, and his palms were scratched and bleeding lightly from where he had tried to catch himself. He looked completely, utterly betrayed, as though Merlin had shattered every dream he'd ever had. Looking into his eyes Merlin saw, for the first time in months, the child he had saved, so many years ago. The one he would save again, if given the choice, because he was _innocent_.

"So this," Mordred said, his voice low and fragile, "_this_ is Emrys, then." He raised a trembling hand to his face; it came back down reddened with fresh blood. "Do you know, the stories they tell about you? They say you will save us all, you will free us and bring magic back to Camelot, give the land back to our people. I've _dreamt_ of it, Merlin, and you have no idea how many people are resting their hopes, their entire _lives_ on you. And you don't even care! In the end, you'll do anything for Arthur, but the rest of the world can just look after itself, so long as _he_ lives."

"You _know_ how important he is," Merlin said, trying not to look at the blood now smeared across Mordred's cheek. "You _know_ I have to protect him."

"From _me_?" Mordred rose to his feet, pinning Merlin to the spot with a wild, hurt look on his face that made him seem _so young_. "From someone who only wants the same thing you strive for? From one of your _kin_, Merlin?"

"I've seen things –"

"Oh, yes," Mordred said, stepping closer until he was right in Merlin's face, "I can guess what you've seen. That's why you don't trust me, isn't it? Not because of anything I've _done_, but because of something you're scared I will do."

"I _saw_ –"

"And it was shown to you for a reason! So that you could _change_ it, save him and – and stop _me_, not lose me, because I'm _not_, Merlin, I'm not whatever you saw. I took that spear for Arthur, you were there and you _saw_ it, so you have to know – I'm _not_!" There was despair in Mordred's eyes now, and his voice hitched as he spoke. "If you just trust me _now_, you can stop me later. But punish me for something I have not yet done, and you damn us all. And if you don't care about the rest of us, at least do it for _him_."

Another choice, another split between two paths, one leading to destruction and the other to salvation. But which was which? Could destiny really be changed? Merlin had made mistakes trying to save Morgana and had eventually precipitated her betrayal. He couldn't do it again with Mordred, couldn't give someone else his trust and then have them turn against Arthur.

"I would die before I harmed Arthur," Mordred said quietly, looking right into Merlin's eyes. His hand rose to cover the exact space where the spear had hit him, pressing into the skin gently, reminding Merlin that he almost _had_ died for Arthur. "You have to believe that."

Morgana had loved Arthur, once. They had been like brother and sister, settled in an easy trust and a comfortable rivalry. Arthur would have died before he doubted her loyalty.

Merlin closed his eyes, not wanting to see that desperate, betrayed look in Mordred's expression anymore. "I can't. Gods, I want to. But I can't."

* * *

As much as Arthur didn't trust Merlin not to lie anymore, he still _trusted_ him – trusted him to have his back, to be by his side always, to not betray him. The kind of deep, relentless trust that ran in his blood and was bred in his bones. So when news came of a strange creature attacking a village on the outskirts of the kingdom, killing livestock at night and even, once, a farmer, Arthur brought Merlin with him along with the knights he had selected. And he didn't bring Mordred.

"Why are you even going?" Merlin asked the first night they camped outside on the road to the village. "You could just have sent your knights."

"We don't know what that thing is, Merlin," Arthur replied after a moment's pause that said, _Are you actually questioning me?_ "No one has seen it, and it doesn't leave tracks. It could be a magical threat."

"You think it's Morgana."

"I don't know, Merlin. I don't know anything anymore."

That felt like a reproach. Merlin winced.

"Arthur, you know I –"

"Go to sleep, Merlin."

* * *

As it turned out, it wasn't Morgana, but it _was_ magic. A wyvern, which explained why it left no tracks – it had never even landed. It was old, which was why it had mostly been sticking to animal prey, but it wasn't slow enough to not pose trouble to the knights. When attacked, instead of fleeing, wyverns had a _fight_ instinct, and this one put up a hell of a fight; claws tearing, teeth ripping, and tail knocking the knights on their arses. Every last one of them. It was a magical creature and it didn't look like it wanted to be beaten by a handful of men with shiny pieces of metal. There was something beautiful in the way its body moved, gleaming in the sunlight, writhing around to defend itself from spears and swords.

At any moment, Merlin could have sent it away with a few words in the dragon's tongue, but in order for it to hear him, he would have had to speak loudly enough for the knights to hear as well, and he couldn't. Instead he watched, cushioning the knights' falls as best he could, making sure that none of them were grievously injured, until Arthur was the last one standing. And then he watched as the wyvern sent Arthur down, too.

* * *

As soon as the wyvern had left,with strict orders not to bother Camelot again, Merlin knelt by Arthur's side. The king lay flat on his face, unmoving. Merlin turned him around hurriedly, his heart skipping a beat when he saw that Arthur's eyes were closed. He looked at peace, as though deeply asleep or – but no, of course not. Merlin breathed out a sigh when he noticed the rhythmic rise and fall of Arthur's chest. He pressed two fingers against the inside of Arthur's wrist, noting the steady pulse with relief. Only unconscious, then.

"Gods, you _idiot_," Merlin breathed, lightly punching Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur's eyelashes fluttered; he blinked once, twice, and then opened his eyes fully. With a start he sat up, then winced when the movement roused the pain in his back. Merlin pushed him back down gently.

"It's all right. Don't try to move right now."

"What... happened?" Arthur asked, going down without protest. His eyes weren't fully focused, and they kept flitting from Merlin to a spot behind him.

Merlin bent his head over Arthur, checking for wounds which might have escaped him. "You killed it."

"I did?" Arthur sounded confused.

"Yeah."

Arthur frowned; his eyes cleared a little. "I killed it. While I was unconscious," he said flatly.

"You are a man of many talents."

"Don't lie to me, Merlin."

Merlin gave Arthur a sidelong glance and couldn't find the strength to say, _I'm not lying_.

"Obviously you incapacitated it right before you lost consciousness," he said, careful not to look directly into Arthur's eyes. "Who else could it have been?"

"Who else, indeed," Arthur said, looking around at his knights, most of whom were rubbing the back their heads, looking dazed as they picked themselves off the ground. "And I suppose the body just disappeared."

Merlin didn't miss a beat. "Well, it _was_ a magical creature."

Arthur scowled. "You know, this is sounding strangely familiar."

"You tend to do this kind of heroic lark a lot," Merlin said with a half-hearted grin. "Not your first time."

"Nor yours, apparently."

Merlin chanced a quick glance at Arthur. His heart sank when he met Arthur's eyes, because the betrayal was clear there, darkening Arthur's expression like a cloud passing in front of the sun. Arthur didn't believe him. He looked away quickly, afraid that Arthur would read the truth in his eyes.

"Again, not your best lie," Arthur said, and again it was like a dagger sliding right into Merlin's heart.

This was tearing them apart, and the only thing that could mend the rift was honesty. But the truth was far too ugly, far too terrible to ever fix anything, let alone something as beautiful, fragile, and subtle as this friendship.

* * *

_Subtle_ was one way to describe it. _Non-existent_ was another.

Ever since Arthur had first called him out on his lies, things had been strained between them. For a while, of course, there had been the cold shoulder period – when Arthur had stopped joking with him, and had hardly even looked at him even when speaking to him. And when they had, tentatively, inevitably, slipped back into their old habits – well, even then, it hadn't quite been the same. But now it was like a second fall, lower and faster and harder than the first, because Arthur _suspected_. Not the magic, no. But he suspected that Merlin was hiding something, something far bigger than either of them. Something he should never have hidden from Arthur, something that made him lie. And in that suspicion, Arthur felt the first hints of betrayal and doubt, and Merlin could say nothing to reassure him.

Arthur never lied.

The realisation had been unpleasant, but the day it came to Merlin, he couldn't deny its truth. In their dealings with each other, at least, Arthur was never anything less than completely honest. Sometimes he joked, sometimes he outright told Merlin he didn't want to touch on this particular subject, but he never looked Merlin in the eye and _lied_. If he had, Merlin would have understood and forgiven in the blink of an eye, but he didn't. Maybe he sensed it would give Merlin a sense of satisfaction and justification that he didn't deserve.

It was a lonely time for them both; at least, Merlin thought it was as lonely for Arthur as it was for him, though Arthur never let on. They never spoke of it, because no words could mend what had been broken: Merlin wouldn't tell, and Arthur couldn't guess. Arthur's pride, his honour, his loyalty as a friend were all too deep and too strong for him to guess. Despite his suspicions, the magic and all the secrets went far beyond what he could imagine. It would have meant believing the worst of Merlin, which he was clearly incapable of, and so the idea never seemed to even cross his mind. He never asked, and Merlin couldn't even say for sure that he wondered, because it was never once mentioned between them. But he _had_ to wonder, had to miss what they'd lost as much as Merlin missed it. Even the tentative, fragile conversation between them after the revelation of Mordred's magic would have been welcome now, so complete was their estrangement. If Arthur's loyalty had been a little less constant, or if there had been even a drop of cruelty in his blood, he would have dismissed Merlin from his position of manservant and been rid of him. As it was, Merlin's continued service was painful for them both and, naturally, as they drifted apart they each found someone else to grow closer to.

For Merlin it might have been Gwen. In all logic it _should_ have been Gwen, his first friend in Camelot and such a faithful, genuine and tender-hearted friend that Merlin had, several times, almost found himself wanting to tell her everything. But because of the intimacy she shared with Arthur, because she was _the Queen_, he couldn't. It would be unfair to expect her to shoulder his bitterness. It was Gwaine, instead, Arthur's least disciplined knight, who proved himself a steadfast and concerned friend – and if Merlin had tried he couldn't have found someone who reminded him less of Gwen.

As for Arthur... Arthur, Merlin had realised, had few friends. He had his knights, whom he trusted with his life, but to whom he rarely disclosed any personal trouble. He had Gwen, but again, she wasn't the one whom Arthur spoke to when he needed support. That had always been Merlin.

Now that Merlin was gone, it was – strangely, ironically – Mordred.

* * *

The first time Merlin caught them, he wasn't expecting it. While Arthur hadn't sought to put any distance between Mordred and him, Merlin had assumed that things had to be at least a little tense between them when they found themselves alone. He had seen the ease between them in public, when Arthur was with a group of knights, but he hadn't imagined that it might be anything more than a front, at least on Arthur's part. So when, after a particularly uneventful training session, Arthur remained in the armoury long after the other knights had departed, Merlin went to find him without any concern but the one that Arthur would be late for the council meeting he had scheduled that afternoon.

He opened the door without taking care to be discreet about it, and had already started voicing his question to Arthur when the words stuck in his throat as he took in the scene before him.

At the other end of the armoury, between several helms and swords, Arthur and Mordred were sitting on a bench, their backs against the wall, their sides pressed together from knee to hip. They were dressed similarly in simple, open-collared shirts, having evidently helped each other out of their armour, and they were leaning slightly towards each other, speaking in hushed voices. As Merlin watched, Mordred held his hand out in front of him and whispered a few words that Merlin instantly recognised, from the power that seemed to roll off them in spades. A warm, golden light emanated from his hand, casting the most beautiful shadows across the floor, and worse than Mordred's smile and his trust was the expression of wonder on Arthur's face – not approval, exactly, but so far from fear and hatred that it _hurt_.

The light slowly faded away into nothingness, but Arthur's expression didn't change. He said something, asked a question probably, which Mordred readily answered. And neither drew back, nor seemed to fear the other. Something that Mordred said made Arthur smile, and then even chuckle, and still he sat so close to Mordred that their sides were touching. Something tightened painfully in Merlin's chest, and he rapped his knuckles smartly against the wooden door.

They didn't jump apart like culprits, as Merlin had almost expected them to do. Mordred didn't so much as look up – he had probably sensed Merlin's arrival and wasn't surprised by it. But Arthur turned his head to the side slowly, disinterestedly; at least until his gaze met Merlin's. He started slightly, his face going pale.

"For God's sake, Merlin, you're supposed to knock _before_ opening the door," Arthur snapped, his voice full of an annoyance that Merlin was certain hadn't been there when he had been whispering with Mordred. "How much did you overhear?"

The question stung even more than the tone in which it was asked, because under normal circumstances Arthur wouldn't have cared whether Merlin had overheard a conversation with a knight, and if it had been anything of importance he would have repeated it himself to Merlin.

"Nothing, sire," Merlin said, unable to keep the resentment from his tone. "I just thought – the council – you wouldn't want to be late."

Arthur looked at him intently for a moment more, and Merlin realised that he was trying to tell whether or not he was lying. Merlin struggled to swallow the bile that rose up in his throat and met Arthur's gaze unflinchingly.

"I'm sorry. I'll knock next time," he said stiffly. "I apologise, sire."

Irrationally, he hoped that somehow, a part of Arthur recognised that the apology wasn't really for the knocking, but for everything that was broken between them.

* * *

_"I apologise, sire."_

It wasn't the apology that startled Arthur, so much as the way it was spoken – the added courtesy of his title, the uncharacteristic formality in the phrasing when he could have just muttered _"Sorry_._"_ The hurt but sincere tone, as though Merlin really _were_ sorry, as though he meant every word when he had only ever laughed at common courtesy. He glanced sideways at Mordred, questioningly; out of the corner of his eye he saw Merlin's expression shut down, becoming stony and closed off.

"I'll see you later," Merlin said, avoiding Arthur's gaze in a way that Arthur had never known him to do.

And before Arthur could say anything – like _What?_ or _Look at me, for God's sake_ or even _Can we talk?_ –, Merlin was gone.

Arthur turned back to Mordred, spreading his hands. "What was all that about?"

Mordred looked at him intently. "I don't know," he said finally, his tone cautious. "What _was_ it about? You practically assaulted him."

"He was _eavesdropping_ –"

"I sensed him coming," Mordred said. "I wouldn't have let him witness anything I didn't want him to."

There were several things Arthur wanted to say to that. How come Mordred was defending Merlin, why was he so outspoken now when he had never been anything but respectful to Arthur, why the hell would he have _let_ Merlin eavesdrop on anything? But what came out of his mouth was:

"What do you mean, you _sensed_ him?"

The change in Mordred's expression was minute, barely-there, but Arthur caught it, because Mordred was a sorcerer and Arthur was _watching_. Mordred's cheeks flushed lightly, and a shadow dulled his eyes, like a cloud passing in front of the sun.

"It's... something my magic allows me to do," Mordred said. "I'm sorry, sire. I shouldn't have – for a moment, I forgot –"

"No," Arthur said, cutting him off with a small wave, ignoring the way Mordred's apology rang in his ears, an unpleasant reminder of Merlin. "I've told you I don't want you to keep secrets anymore."

He was tempted to ask Mordred how it worked, but the mere mention of the word _magic_ had sent a queasiness rolling in his stomach. Moments before, he had watched Mordred produce light with only a few words (words in a strange language unlike any he'd ever heard), and the feeling that had filled him hadn't been fear or anything like it, but a sort of sick fascination, of the kind that made it difficult to look away from a burning house or an agonising animal – except that Arthur would soon have put an agonising animal out of its misery, but something about the magic had left him rooted to the spot, unable to speak a word to end it, and maybe not even wanting to. Because, yes, it had been beautiful.

It was still magic.

Arthur stood up, thinking several things all at once. Magic had still taken Morgana away from him. It had taken his father – maybe even both his parents – away from him. It had destroyed his entire family, and had come close to killing _him_ more times than he could count. He had wavered several times over the years, uncertain whether his father's policy was truly the right thing for Camelot, but always some event had brought him back to his conviction that magic could do no good. But then the Disir had come along, and Arthur had been _willing_ to accept magic in exchange for Mordred's life. He had seriously considered it, had wanted to do it even, and it was only Merlin's assurance that he couldn't sacrifice Camelot for the sake of one man that had stopped him. And now... now he knew that Mordred had magic. Mordred, who had stabbed Morgana to save him, and then taken a spear meant for him. Mordred who was looking up at him silently, his blue eyes piercing, as though he could see everything Arthur was thinking.

"I have to go," Arthur told him, turning to leave.

"Sire, if I may –?"

Arthur looked back, silently granting permission. There was that shadow across Mordred's eyes again, like a veil drawn over the sky, darkening his entire expression. Arthur couldn't read into it – was that hurt, or concern? – but the look sent a chill up his spine.

"Don't believe everything Merlin tells you," Mordred said.

Arthur sucked in a breath, willing the flare of pain in his chest to go away. He wasn't sure what exactly Mordred meant by the warning, but he thought he had an idea.

Arthur turned away again. "You don't have to worry about that. I don't."

* * *

Maybe it was better that Arthur was starting to withdraw from Merlin. Maybe the pain of the revelation would have been much worse, if he had still been as close to Merlin as they used to be. Or maybe not. Because even though the trust wasn't really there anymore, Arthur was still as emotionally tangled up in Merlin as before – maybe even more. The hurt was worse than any of the fond amusement he had once felt when he looked at Merlin, and stronger – tugging at his heart whenever Merlin shot him a particular look, the one where it seemed like he was about to drown in sadness. And it wasn't that Arthur enjoyed seeing that look, or that he _wanted_ Merlin to feel that way. But he could never bring himself to say the words that would make things all right, because they wouldn't be true.

It didn't matter _why_. In the end, Merlin had still tried to manipulate him into killing one of his own knights, without telling him the facts that would have allowed him to make a real decision. It had been such a display of faithlessness – not trusting that Arthur's choice would be correct, not trusting him with the truth – that Arthur couldn't forgive him for it, because it was so completely unexpected, coming from Merlin. _Merlin_, for God's sake.

Arthur trusted many people. He trusted his knights with his life; he trusted Gwen with his heart. But there was only one person whom he trusted with _everything_, completely and without reserve – and evidently, that trust was not returned. Because Merlin was still lying, and even denying that he was lying. About what? The ignorance, the selfish desire to know was killing Arthur, but he couldn't ask. He had already asked, and Merlin had never offered an answer. Arthur's pride wouldn't unbend enough for him to ask again, when he knew that he would be disappointed.

In the end, he didn't even have to ask.

* * *

When it happened, it was over the most common, stupid thing imaginable. There was no angry showdown, no shouting match, no fighting, because it would have been impossible for either of them. The revelation left Arthur speechless, and Merlin... Merlin didn't even realise he'd been found out. It was less of a confrontation than a one-sided shock; Merlin never knew the exact moment when everything shattered.

It happened when he lit a fire in the rain, and it was Arthur's fault. Arthur was the one who had insisted on going out that day, when the dark clouds and the heaviness in the air made it obvious to anyone with any sense at all that it was going to rain. He was the one who had made Merlin ride deep into the forest, looking for game when there was none to be had. And he was the one who refused to stop and find better shelter than the thin canopy of leaves above them when it started to rain.

"Oh for the love of –" Merlin muttered, rolling his eyes. "Are you really going to make me ride home in the rain?"

"You can stay if you'd like," Arthur said bitingly, glaring up at the sky.

Because yes, it _was_ his fault, but on the other hand, he would never have been angry and blinded enough to want to get away from the castle on a day like this if it wasn't for Merlin. These days, it wasn't that Merlin got on his nerves anymore. Arthur just felt a lack, as though something were missing in their relationship now that the trust was gone, and he hated it.

"Oh, come on," Merlin said, stopping his horse. "Let's just wait here. You know I hate riding in the rain."

Arthur did know. The knowledge was the only thing that had prevented him from stopping to find shelter.

"Is this your idea of revenge?" Merlin asked when Arthur didn't say anything, or attempt to stop his horse. "Because if it is, it's pretty stupid. You'll get wet, too."

It wasn't what Merlin said so much as the tone with which he said it: gentle, almost pleading. Arthur tugged on his reins, stopping his horse, and with a sigh, he dismounted. He grimaced as he stretched his legs, feeling the way the already dampened fabric of his trousers clung to his thighs and calves uncomfortably.

"All right," he said. "What's your brilliant idea, then?"

"Find _shelter_," Merlin said.

"And leave the path? We'd be further away from home than we are right now. That's stupid."

"Not if there's a storm," Merlin muttered, but he shrugged defeatedly and plopped down on a tree stump. "Fine. We'll stay here, see how you like it." Under his breath, he added, "I hope there _is_ a storm, you prat."

"I heard that."

"You were meant to."

Arthur smiled faintly, because there was just enough insolence in there to remind him of what had been. He sat down across from Merlin, in the dirt that was slowly turning to mud.

"When we get drenched, remember this was your idea," he said. "_I_ wanted to continue riding."

Merlin shot him an incredulous look. "You're serious. You're actually serious."

The smile widened, and Arthur threw his head back, closing his eyes. A drop of rain leaked through the canopy above and splashed on his cheek.

"I'm always serious."

Merlin didn't answer, and several minutes passed before either of them said anything. Arthur heard the rustling of leaves before he cracked open an eye.

"What are you doing?"

"Gathering wood," Merlin said.

Arthur opened both eyes and frowned. "That's stupid."

"Yes, well, so am I."

"No, I mean it. It's stupid."

Merlin shot him an exasperated look. "Why don't you go back to sleep?"

"I wasn't sleeping," Arthur muttered, but he closed his eyes again, not interested in watching Merlin collect wood for no purpose.

Five minutes later, there was the sharp sound of two stones being struck together, and then a joyous, friendly crackling noise that Arthur recognised, except _it couldn't be_. He opened his eyes and stared into the fire, willing it to go away. It had to be only his imagination. It _had_ to.

It wasn't.

It hit Arthur like a falling stone, heavy and painful and unexpected. He should have seen, should have known. But he hadn't. He had never imagined, in his worst nightmares, that Merlin could be hiding something of this magnitude. Hiding _this_.

"Did you just –"

"Light a fire? Yeah. You're welcome."

Merlin had to think he was some kind of _idiot_. There was just _no way_ anyone could light a fire with wood that was that damp, and certainly not this kind of fire – all leaping flames with hardly any smoke at all. But Merlin had gathered the wood and struck two random stones together and a spark had caught immediately and did he _really_ think Arthur didn't know how fire-making worked?

"Come on," he said. "Help me cover the fire or the rain'll get to it."

And that, right there, was the ultimate proof that Merlin was the biggest idiot that had ever lived. Didn't he realise, when he said that, that it was obvious his fire had no reason to exist in the first place? Arthur didn't move as Merlin heaved a sigh and arranged a couple of leafy branches to shelter the fire. He stared into the flames, wondering whether they even needed the protection. Did magical fires burn even in the rain? He felt the irrational urge to reach out and thrust his fingers into the fire, just to make sure it was real, but he could feel its heat from where he was crouching in the mud and knew it was a ridiculous idea.

"It'll keep us warm," Merlin said. "Until the rain clears."

"Hopefully we won't have drowned by then," Arthur said absently.

The trees above really did provide little shelter, but Arthur wasn't going to suggest they look for a dryer place. He wanted to avoid a detour – and he wanted to annoy Merlin. Besides, Arthur's cloak offered him some protection, and Merlin... Well, Merlin was a sorcerer, apparently. Surely he would think of something. Arthur glanced at him, taking in the thin fabric of his clothing and the way he had drawn his neckerchief more tightly around his neck. He was leaning toward the fire, his hands held out; it occurred to Arthur that Merlin might have asked to stop and find a shelter because he was cold. He might have taken the risk of lighting a fire with magic _because he was cold_.

"It'll be over soon," Merlin said optimistically.

_ Was_ it optimism, or was there a sort of magic that allowed him to predict the weather?

God. Would he never be able to listen to Merlin without immediately thinking, _Magic_? The magic he hated, the magic he feared, the magic that had taken everything from him. Yet looking at Merlin now, neither fear nor hatred rose in him; only a sick, betrayed feeling that spoke more of hurt than resentment. Arthur felt, ludicrously, _alone_, even as he knew that his single most loyal servant, his friend of over eight years (had he been keeping count?) sat by his side. His discovery had set up a new barrier between them, or maybe it had only opened his eyes to an old, long-standing one; a barrier strengthened by years of secrets and lies. All these years, Merlin was the one person who had never disappointed him, never failed him, never betrayed him. He had always been _there_, the best friend Arthur could hope for, expecting nothing in exchange.

Arthur tasted bile in the back of his throat as he realised that Merlin had lied to him repeatedly for years, that the trust Arthur had given him whole-heartedly – a trust that was never spoken but always implied, always _meant_, as much trust as a king could place in any single person – had never been fully returned, because here... Here was something Merlin didn't trust him with, even after years of his friendship. Something that Merlin thought would break them.

Would it? _Could_ it? Could anything break them? Arthur felt the strain in the link between them. He didn't think anything was strong enough to destroy years of friendship – because it _was_ friendship, that couldn't be a lie as well; if it was, then that was certainly what would destroy Arthur, and he refused to think of it –, but this came closer than anything else Arthur had imagined, mainly because Arthur had never once even considered the idea that Merlin was anything less than completely loyal.

There had always been _something_ about him, an air of indefinable mystery, but Arthur had added it to the list of things about Merlin that were just _different_. His stupidity, his ears, his bravery, the way he talked back, his awful clumsiness, and his ridiculous tendency to want to die for Arthur even though he was _a servant not a knight_ – well. From the moment they'd met Arthur had known there was something about Merlin, but he had never imagined this. Merlin, lying to him for years, and he had never seen it.

Was he such an inattentive friend that he had never suspected anything? Arthur sifted through recent memories, trying to find anything that could be construed as a hint, a clue. Merlin was _not_ a good liar. Except he was, apparently; that or Arthur was blind.

It was probably both, Arthur thought sourly. And where did that leave them? One of them had lied and the other had cared so little he had never seen that something was wrong. He had been blinded, blinded by trust (had he learnt nothing from Morgana?) and would never have known if he hadn't actually witnessed it.

"Arthur?" Merlin asked, concern seeping into his tone. "Is something wrong?"

Arthur felt himself tense, and curbed his anger before it shone through in his own voice. If Merlin spoke again, he thought he might snap.

"I'm fine," he said, trying not to look at Merlin.

"You don't look fine."

Arthur ground his teeth together. "Well, I am," he said shortly.

He could feel Merlin's questioning stare, but thankfully his manservant didn't say anything more on the subject. Several months ago, before all this mess, Merlin might have pushed a little more, been a little more insistent, but now he didn't.

Mordred knew. The heavy irony of it didn't escape Arthur; that Merlin had known about Mordred's magic, and Mordred about Merlin's, and yet Arthur had trusted both of them and never guessed their duplicity.

* * *

When the rain stopped, they returned to the castle, and Arthur didn't say a word. Instead, he drove Merlin harder than ever. A part of him realised he was being unfair, but the bitterness that filled him was blinding. It helped, to have an outlet for his anger. He snapped, threw things, and thrust so many chores upon his servant that it was a wonder Merlin didn't collapse from over-exertion. Except, of course, that he could do his job with _magic_ if he chose to. So Merlin didn't appear that worn-out or tired, but he did pick up on the fact that he had displeased Arthur somehow.

He didn't complain about it.

Under any other circumstances, Merlin would have given as good as he got, fighting Arthur every step of the way. That was just the was he _was_. He had never been afraid of standing up to Arthur, or complaining to Gaius or even Arthur's own knights. But ever since the complete _mess_ they'd made of the Disir and Mordred thing, Merlin had stopped talking back. He took everything with a wince, but never so much as scowled. And when Arthur watched him talk to Gwaine, he always had a faint smile to offer and never, never a single word of complaint.

It bothered Arthur. It was like some sort of sick self-flagellation, as though the punishment Arthur was giving him wasn't enough. Even _Arthur_ knew, deep inside, that it was too much, that he should just confront Merlin and _say it_ instead of drawing the pain out like this. But just like Merlin had never been able to tell him, now Arthur found he couldn't say it, either.

He tried. Once. In a very roundabout, not very clever way, but he did try. Merlin shoved his attempt right back in his face, so clearly that it left Arthur speechless.

They were in Arthur's room, because he couldn't think of anywhere else they would have the necessary privacy. And for once, Merlin had practically nothing to do. He was standing, tense, with his back to the door, his spine straight, his expression expectant, as though waiting for Arthur's next order. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he looked so determined to serve that Arthur felt himself soften a little and thought, _We can get past this._ It was _Merlin_, after all.

He said, slowly, uncertainly, "I've been thinking about... about the time you saved my life."

Merlin started slightly, surprised. It had been a while since Arthur had voluntarily started a conversation with him. But then Merlin relaxed, and the grin that crossed his expression warmed Arthur's heart with its familiarity.

"You're going to have to be a bit more precise than that if you expect me to know what you're talking about."

Arthur smiled back, because that, at least, was true. "I meant the first time, with Lady Helen."

"That was ages ago."

"Yeah. Before you even became my manservant."

"Oh, the good old days." Merlin heaved an exaggerated sigh. "I've almost forgotten what it feels like to be free."

It was meant as a joke. For God's sake, it _was_ a joke. But a sick feeling pooled in the pit of Arthur's stomach, and he couldn't help but wonder how much truth hid behind Merlin's humour, and how many lies were usually concealed by his jokes. _Free_. Free to use magic.

"It's not like I ever _asked_ you to be my manservant."

Merlin didn't even look up. "Good, 'cause I'd have said no."

Arthur choked back a laugh. "You can't just say _no_ to the prince of Camelot."

"Watch me."

And Arthur did. He watched as Merlin, apparently unused to not having any chores to do, smoothed down the covers of his bed and cleared the bedside table. Watched as he picked two shirts off the ground and irreverently balled them up to carry to the laundry girls later. Watched as he kicked the wardrobe door closed and turned around, raising his eyes to Arthur's, his expression irritated.

"I didn't mean _literally_."

"You do realise you've completely changed the subject, don't you?"

"What subject? You haven't said a word in ten minutes!"

Arthur looked at him. Before, it wouldn't even have occurred to him that Merlin might redirect a conversation in the direction he wanted it to go, but now it was obvious. Merlin's expression was studiously annoyed, but his eyes flickered from left to right like a cornered animal's. Out of fear. Out of nervousness.

Because of his lies.

"_Lady Helen_," Arthur said pointedly.

"You mean you want to dwell on the good old memories?" Merlin said, offering Arthur a grin that could only be described as half-hearted at best. "Back when I didn't have to bear your constant moaning."

Arthur bit down the retort that came naturally to him, refusing to be baited again. "I've been wondering how you did it."

When Merlin tensed, it was almost imperceptible. Arthur only caught it because he was deliberately looking for it.

"Really?" Merlin said, his tone light. "And here I was wondering _why_ I did it."

"You were at the other end of the room. No one could have made it to the table that fast."

Merlin's eyes darted away, then back to Arthur's face again. "I wasn't that far."

"Yes, you were."

Merlin looked Arthur straight in the eye. "You must be getting old. Your memory is failing you. I was only a few steps away, the whole time."

Arthur felt his stomach roll, and had to fight not to lose his breakfast. He took in a couple quick, shallow breaths, and stood up abruptly, ignoring the way the world spun.

If this was what Merlin looked like when he lied, then in all the years Arthur had known him, he wasn't sure whether Merlin had ever once been completely honest with him.

* * *

He had to know if anyone else knew. Mordred had known, and that made a lot of sense, actually. Gaius, of course. But had Merlin told anyone else? Not Gwen – Arthur didn't even want to imagine that she would hide such a thing from him. But maybe one of his knights. The suspicion wouldn't leave him alone, and though he hated himself for doubting his men, he did end up asking Gwaine. Because if Merlin told only one knight, it would be Gwaine. Arthur didn't want to think about what it meant that Gwaine was so important. His friendly rivalry with the knight had never been only about swordplay.

It was in the tavern that Arthur asked him. It was the most strategical time and place to catch Gwaine with his guard down: when he had a few drinks in his system. Gwaine could hold his alcohol astonishingly well, but even he couldn't hold up forever and alcohol always ended up loosening his tongue and inhibitions. When he nearly fell down – twice – walking across the room to his seat, Arthur figured now was as good a time as any.

"Gwaine," he said, not bothering to be subtle when Gwaine was in this state – would he even remember their conversation in the morning? –, "Have you ever noticed anything _strange_ about Merlin?"

"Oh, definitely," Gwaine said easily.

Arthur sat up.

"Merlin is _very_ strange," Gwaine went on, slurring his words a little. "He's something special, isn't he? One would have to be blind not to see it. The way he puts up with you is beyond strange. Very impressive."

Arthur let his head fall forward into his hands. Of course a drunk Gwaine would be even more insulting than the usual one.

"That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?"

Gwaine sounded casual – too casual. _Deliberately_ casual. Arthur groaned into his hands before looking looked up. _Shit_.

"Don't tell me," he said. "You're not as drunk as I thought you were."

Gwaine took a moment before reacting, as though he were debating whether or not to drop the act. Then the unfocused look in his eyes sharpened, and he offered Arthur a small smile.

"You really need to stop underestimating me."

Arthur shook his head in disbelief. "Do you realise how much you've drunk? It's amazing you're still conscious, let alone sober enough for coherent sentences."

"Do you realise how little _you_'ve drunk?" Gwaine countered, the slurring completely gone from his voice. "I'm not stupid. I knew what you were trying to do." He didn't sound happy about it. "You _wanted_ me drunk. I can think of only two reasons you could possibly want that, and one of them would greatly offend your sensibilities, not to mention your wife."

Arthur felt himself flush. "You're not insinuating –"

"And the other," Gwaine said, "is really quite insulting. So between you and me, I'm not sure which option I prefer."

Arthur ducked his head. Gwaine _wasn't_ an idiot. He'd understood that Arthur had been trying to get him drunk to question him, and he had played along only to find out what it was Arthur wanted to know.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, looking down at the wood of the table between them.

"Yeah?" Gwaine didn't sound convinced. "Does that mean you're going to tell me why you don't think you can trust me?"

"It's not that," Arthur said, wincing at the thought. "Not really."

"Not really," Gwaine echoed. "Then why were you trying to weasel information out of me? Do you think I've lied to you?"

"Not exactly." Arthur chanced a look up at Gwaine. "Maybe just... held back some information."

Gwaine tensed. "What gave you that idea?" he asked sharply.

His reaction strengthened Arthur's suspicions. So there _was_ something.

"Is there something you haven't told me... about Merlin?"

A crease formed between Gwaine's eyebrows as he frowned. "About _Merlin_? This is about Merlin? What's he done?"

Arthur eyed him. "That's what I want to know."

"Okay," Gwaine said, sitting up straight in his chair. Arthur didn't think anyone could fake confusion that convincingly, but with Gwaine, you never knew. "Okay. _What_? You dragged me a tavern and got me drunk for me to spill the beans on _Merlin_? Really?"

"Hardly 'dragged,'" Arthur said, annoyed. "I didn't hear you complaining."

Gwaine waved a hand, in a wide, swooping gesture that was just uncontrolled enough to suggest that maybe he _had_ had too much to drink. "I like taverns. You know that. Look, Arthur. Your Highness. Whatever it is I'm supposed to call you. I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"I think you do," Arthur countered. "If anyone does, it's you."

"I'm honoured you think so highly of me, but really, you –"

"Not _me_," Arthur said disgustedly. "Merlin. He likes you."

"He likes everyone. Doesn't mean he tells me all his secrets – of which he hasn't _got_ any, by the way. I don't know what you're on about or what you want to hear, but I can tell you this: you're not going to hear it from me."

Arthur stared at Gwaine. He couldn't shake the impression that Gwaine knew more than he was letting on, but would Gwaine really lie to his king for Merlin's sake?

"You are a knight of Camelot," Arthur said slowly. "You're bound to _me_."

"If there's something you should know about me, Arthur, it's this." Gwaine grinned. "I would rather lose my knighthood a million times over than betray a friend."

Oh, yes. He really would.

"So you do know something," Arthur said.

"Did I say that? I never said that."

There was a gleam in Gwaine's eye, both defiance and amusement, and Arthur knew he wouldn't get another word out of his least obedient knight.

* * *

Arthur was in a foul mood when he returned to the castle that night. He left Gwaine behind in the tavern, where he would probably proceed to get actually drunk until he passed out or something. Arthur didn't even want to think of the amount of alcohol needed to make someone like Gwaine pass out. Hell, he didn't want to think about Gwaine at all. His gut instinct told him his knight was hiding _something_, but he couldn't prove it and Gwaine wasn't about to let himself be tricked.

He stormed through the corridors, which were thankfully more or less empty at this hour. Gwen was most likely already asleep; he couldn't join her now. On the other hand, returning to his room and being alone with his thoughts didn't sound particularly tempting right now. Damn Gwaine. Damn Mordred. Damn Merlin. Damn _everyone_.

"Arthur?"

"_What?_" Arthur snapped, shoulders tensing as he stopped walking abruptly, but all irritation left him when he turned and looked into the shockingly cold blue of Mordred's eyes.

Mordred flinched at his tone, but didn't back away. Looking at him, Arthur suddenly felt old, so very old. How many years since he had met Merlin? Eight. _Eight goddamn years_ and he still remembered every detail of that first encounter. Thinking back, it had really set the tone for most of their relationship – and at the same time, it hadn't. Merlin had turned out to be so much more than what Arthur had thought at first glance.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... reacted like that."

Mordred nodded, accepting the apology, his forehead creased with concern. "Arthur. I mean, sire. I know this can't be easy for you. Is there anything I can do to help?" He bit his lip, his eyes darting to a spot above Arthur's shoulder. "Maybe I could... I mean, if you think I should leave..."

"No."

Mordred's eyes snapped to his face, widening in surprise.

"No, of course I don't want you to leave," Arthur said, realising as he spoke them that the words were true. "You saved my life. You're a valuable knight. It's just... I have a lot on my mind at the moment."

Mordred's expression was like Arthur had offered to abdicate in his favour: there was that much shock and sheer _joy_ in it. God, Mordred was such a _child_.

"All right," Mordred said, not bothering to hide his smile. "I completely understand."

They stood there, staring at each other, for several long moments before Mordred ducked his head, flushing. He murmured an apology and turned to leave.

Arthur caught him by the wrist, stopping him. "Wait."

Mordred turned back to face him, a questioning look in his eyes.

Arthur swallowed down the strange ball in his throat. "Can we talk?"

"By _talk_, you mean _about magic_, don't you?"

Arthur glanced around the corridor. It was empty, it was dark, but that didn't mean it was safe.

"Come to my room," he said abruptly. "No one will overhear us there."

* * *

It was easy, so easy, once they were in the privacy of his own room, to say the words. He hadn't spoken them aloud yet, not once since he'd found out about Merlin. He hadn't thought he _could_. But here, with Mordred, it was easy. Arthur sat down on the edge of his bed, motioning for Mordred to bring a chair up. He took a deep breath, and the words escaped him.

"Merlin has magic."

Just like that.

He waited, gauging Mordred's reaction, wanting to see if his knight would pretend not to have known. Mordred's eyes widened in surprise, and Arthur's heart sank. _He's going to lie._

But Mordred said, "I didn't think he'd tell you."

"He didn't."

Mordred froze, and his expression changed completely, going from surprised to compassionate in a single second. He didn't say anything, but his eyes were piercing, as though he knew exactly what was going on in Arthur's mind.

"That's two," Arthur said. "You and Merlin. That's two people I trusted who had magic all along."

Mordred dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Are there others?" Arthur asked. "No, don't answer that. I don't think you'd tell me if there were. What I mean is maybe I've missed something. Maybe magic isn't all evil, if... if he's had it for so long and I never noticed. I don't think he'd use it against me." He hesitated. "I don't _think_ so."

"He wouldn't." Mordred's voice was firm and sure.

"And I don't think you would, either."

A shadow crossed Mordred's expression, changing it into something dark and unreadable. "I wouldn't," he said stiffly.

Arthur nodded, then looked away. Why had he even brought Mordred here? There was a barrier between them, making everything awkward. He had hoped that they could talk, that maybe Mordred could explain – explain about Merlin, and the lies, and _everything_ –, but...

"How did you learn magic?" he asked abruptly.

Mordred didn't seem surprised by the question. "I grew up surrounded by it. I showed potential even as a child, so the druids taught me. Part of it is instinct, though. Magic is something you _have_, not just something you learn."

"Do all druids have magic?"

"No. Most of them have at least a little potential, but not everyone chooses to use it."

"So they have a choice."

Mordred shook his head. "If you're talking about Merlin –"

"I'm not," Arthur lied.

"– his gift is too strong to be ignored. It would have escaped from him at the worst of times. He had to learn to control and use it."

Arthur swallowed. Did it lessen the betrayal or only make it worse, that Merlin was so _powerful_ he couldn't have renounced magic if he'd tried? Trying to get his mind around Merlin being a gifted sorcerer – one who could do more than just light a fire with his mind – was at least as painful as realising he'd been lying for so many years. Arthur didn't want to think about the wyvern, the dragon, the griffin and the insane amount of _luck_ he had had ever since Merlin had arrived in Camelot. He changed the subject.

"What was it like, growing up with druids?"

The look in Mordred's eyes softened, and instantly Arthur knew he'd hit the right subject. Anything that brought that warm, open look into Mordred's eyes had to be worth listening to.

"I had an amazing childhood," Mordred said softly. "Imagine living in a society where the only rule is to be at peace with your neighbours. Where people use magic openly, not to harm, but to create life – to heal, to build, to entertain children." A smile tugged the corners of his lips up. "One of my earliest memories is watching my father use magic to call birds to him. It was the first real spell I learnt."

"Your father," Arthur said. "Was he the one –"

Mordred shook his head, the smile fading. "No. When you met me, I had come to Camelot with Cerdan. My guardian at the time, but not my father. My father had been executed a few years before that."

Arthur tasted bile and had to struggle not to show it. Magic had taken so much from him; but was it only in just revenge for what he and his father had taken from magic?

"Why do you serve me?" he asked, hearing the quaver in his voice. It was the question he so desperately wanted to ask Merlin. "If you love magic so much, why is it that you serve _me_?"

Mordred met Arthur's gaze squarely. "Because I believe in you."

Arthur looked into his eyes, trying to read into the unmoving depths of ice-cold blue. Did he believe Mordred? _Could_ he?

The door opened with a bang.

"Oh good, you're back, Arthur, listen –"

Whatever Merlin had been about to say was never spoken, the words lost as he stopped talking abruptly, taking in the scene before him. Arthur leapt to his feet, his eyes snapping to Merlin's almost _guiltily_ – though he had no idea why – and for a moment they only stared at each other. Merlin looked stricken, like he was the one who had been betrayed.

The door slammed shut again, and Merlin was still on the other side.

* * *

It was only a few days after that that Arthur first mentioned legalising magic to the council. It might have been the smile on Mordred's face as he spoke of the druids. It might have been the wyvern that Arthur knew he had _not_ killed. It might have been every little thing that Merlin had ever done to save his life – but if Arthur was honest with himself, it wasn't really any of that that decided him. It had been the shocked and hurt look that Merlin had given him that day – the same look he still gave him whenever Arthur spoke to Mordred. Arthur never wanted to see that expression again, and once Merlin told him the truth, he knew he wouldn't have to.

Merlin attended council that day, standing quietly behind Arthur, a little to his left. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur watched as his initially straight posture drooped with every passing concern that was brought up, until he was practically slouching. He looked to be half-asleep. And that was when Arthur pounced.

"I've been giving thought to the ban on the practice of magic," he said, speaking as steadily as he could. "I am no longer sure it is in the best interests of the kingdom."

Merlin stiffened, suddenly straightening up. But his expression was nothing like what Arthur had expected – had _wanted_ – it to be. Not hopeful, not happy, not relieved. Instead there was a sudden tension there, and such deep hurt, that it took several moments for Arthur to be able to continue his speech.

And even when he did, Merlin never so much as smiled.

* * *

When they left the council, Merlin didn't say a word, and it was Arthur who broke the silence as they walked through the castle.

"So... Magic," he said, shooting Merlin a surreptitious glance.

"What about it?" Merlin asked, and Arthur wasn't sure whether he imagined the sudden tension in Merlin's shoulders. "Has someone tried to assassinate you again?"

"No," Arthur said. "At least I don't think so. Just – you heard I was thinking about the laws, right?"

"Yeah," Merlin said. "It'll take time for the council to come around to the idea, though. I think you might get them to agree to consider it by the end of the month. Or maybe next month."

Arthur gritted his teeth. "Are you _happy_ about it?"

Merlin froze, like a deer just before it bolts. "Does it matter what I feel?" he asked, sounding defensive. "It's a law. You know I hate all that official stuff."

"Yeah," Arthur said, tasting something bitter in the back of his throat. "I hate it, too. But you have an opinion, right? You approve?"

"You don't need my approval, Arthur," Merlin said, and he looked skittish now, jumpy. "Look, if that's all –"

"It's not," Arthur said. "I want to know what you think."

Merlin didn't look at him when he said, "You're doing the right thing, Arthur. You always do."

"Why don't you think all magic is evil?" Arthur asked.

"If you're having second thoughts," Merlin said, "you know you can always go back on your decision. It's not like it's been made official yet. The council would probably be glad."

Like a stone plummeting to the bottom of a lake – it was that fast, that ugly and that dark when Merlin said, with apparent ease, something that ought to have ripped him apart as surely as it was ripping Arthur apart. It wasn't even a lie. It was a casual, complete refusal of the opening Arthur had offered.

"Is that what you _want_ me to do?" Arthur asked, feeling sick.

"I just don't think you should change the law for one person," Merlin said, not meeting his eyes.

Arthur laughed bitterly, making Merlin cross his arms defensively, his spine stiffening. Oh, God. Merlin thought it was Mordred – that Arthur was doing it for Mordred's sake, because he wanted _Mordred_ to be free and happy. And a part of him _did_ want that, but that wasn't why he was doing it. That wasn't it at all.

"Well," Merlin said, his voice hollow, "I'm glad you can find _something_ to laugh about, because I sure as hell can't."

And he shoved his way past Arthur with more strength than Arthur had ever expected to find in his slender frame and started walking away.

"Goddamnit, Merlin, what is _wrong_ with you?" Arthur called after him.

"What's wrong with _you_?" Merlin shot back, spinning around on his heel. "You're being an ass. You want to throw chores at me like there's no tomorrow? You want to ignore me until it suits you to remember I'm _right here_? Well that's fine. You're the king, you can do whatever you want. But _don't_ ask me for advice afterwards and _don't_ pretend we're friends, Arthur. We're obviously not."

Arthur stared at him, stunned. How had it all gone so wrong, so quickly? More importantly, when had it all become _his_ fault? It wasn't like Merlin was innocent. He'd lied for so long. He was still lying, even now. He had to know that a few words, a single confession would fix _everything_.

Arthur shook his head disgustedly. "You know what, Merlin? You can just go to hell."

Merlin smiled an ugly, bitter smile. "Then I guess I'll see you there, won't I?"

* * *

Over the next few weeks, the sick feeling of betrayal settled in the pit of Arthur's stomach and set up permanent residence there. The idea of _not_ lifting the ban on magic crossed his mind more than once, but it would have been a petty decision and he knew he couldn't do it. He tried to bait Merlin into telling the truth exactly one other time, and even though he failed again he didn't miss the way Merlin's voice roughened slightly when he answered with a lie, and it helped to soften the blow.

He wasn't sure when he would have preferred to learn of Merlin's magic. Not when they first met, for sure. Maybe a couple years into their friendship, or maybe after he had been crowned. Sometimes it felt like any moment would have been all right, so long as it had been Merlin _coming to him_ with the truth, and not a discovery on his own. He wished he'd never had to see the lies, the way Merlin's foolish grin was as often fake as it was genuine, the ridiculous stories he made up and Arthur believed because he _trusted_ him. And maybe it was cruel, but he couldn't help himself from testing how deep and how far Merlin's own trust in him went.

It was easy, now, to confide in his servant when he told himself it was just a game. He told Merlin secrets without reserve, telling him how important it was that no one ever know, and Merlin listened and never repeated a word. Sometimes he gave advice, but more often than not Arthur didn't care to hear it. He was just waiting for the moment when Merlin would realise that trust was meant to go in both directions, and would confide his own secret to Arthur.

Again and again the moment failed to come. Again and again Arthur felt the ache of the desire to know, the anticipation which lasted the entire five seconds it took Merlin to hesitate and come up with a lie, and finally the retreat and the bitter disappointment. Because Merlin didn't want to tell him, and as days and weeks and _months_ went by it became apparent that he never would. And Arthur couldn't for the life of him understand _why_.

It did occur to him that Merlin might be waiting for the ban on magic to be officially lifted. So when it happened, several _months_ after he had first brought the idea up, months of baiting Merlin and arguing with him, Arthur went to find Merlin in his room – which he shouldn't have been in in the first place, considering his job was to shadow Arthur.

"Where were you earlier?" he asked, standing in the doorway to Merlin's room.

Normally he would have stepped in and grabbed Merlin by the shoulders, dragging him along whether he wanted it or not. But something held him back. Merlin was standing a few feet away, facing him, his arms crossed over his chest, and there was a hostility in his eyes that Arthur had never seen before – at least, not directed at _him_.

"Here."

"I can see _that_," Arthur said. "But why? You should have been with me."

"You didn't say you needed me there."

Arthur stared at Merlin. _Of course I needed you there_. This was all because of Merlin, all _for_ Merlin, and he hadn't even thought to show up. It didn't matter that no one knew, or ever would. Arthur knew. And somewhere, deep inside, Merlin _had_ to know. The past months had nearly _killed_ Arthur with the weight of the secrets and tension between them, and Merlin had noticed. Except it wasn't mistrust anymore. God, Arthur would never have kept Merlin by his side if he had really thought he couldn't trust him. He trusted Merlin to the ends of the earth, and surely Merlin knew it. He had to know.

Didn't he?

Arthur looked more closely. The cold bitterness in Merlin's eyes, the hardness of his mouth had stopped him from fully entering the room, but now he noticed other details. The slight pinkness of his eyes, the shallow, shaky breaths – even his voice sounded different, though Arthur couldn't be sure because _he wasn't talking_. All the signs were there. Merlin had been crying. _God_.

Arthur couldn't know if they had been tears of joy or of bitterness, and he wasn't sure which he would prefer. He wasn't made for this. He didn't know how to comfort a man who was crying and in this case, he didn't even know whether he _wanted_ to. A part of him felt that Merlin deserved to suffer as much as he was making Arthur suffer.

A bigger part of him just wanted to tell Merlin, right now, right here, that he _knew_.

He took in a breath. "Merlin –"

"I'm sorry," Merlin said, dropping his gaze to the floor. "You're right, I should have been there, it's my fault, won't happen again. I'm _sorry_."

Arthur looked at him in disbelief. There wasn't even a _hint_ of an apology in Merlin's tone or posture. He looked and sounded sullen and irritated, like a sulking child, and no other attitude could have spelt his message out more clearly.

_Leave me alone_.

"All right," Arthur said. "Since you're obviously useless today, you can have the rest of the day off."

He left, slamming the door behind him exactly like a sulking child.

* * *

The next morning Merlin woke him up bright and early as usual. Arthur opened bleary eyes and was greeted by Merlin's grin and a singsonged "Rise and shine!" as he flung the curtains open. He shut his eyes again. He had long since accepted that he would never be a morning person. He had no idea how Merlin did it, especially after having spent the previous day being bitter and unpleasant.

"You'll be wanting to get up," Merlin observed, his voice obnoxiously loud in the early morning silence. "The first complaint about magic has already arrived."

Arthur rolled around until he was face-first on the mattress, effectively shutting out the light glaring through the window. "Wonderful," he said through a mouthful of pillow.

Merlin didn't reply (but then again, he probably hadn't understood what Arthur had said). There was a moment or two of blessed silence, and Arthur thought he could almost drift back to sleep again – but then he felt the first tug at his sheets and bed covers.

He groaned into the pillow and secured the sheets more tightly around him. This was one battle he always lost, but he still insisted on fighting it almost every morning. If it bought him just three more minutes – even if it meant he was late for whatever he had to do that day – it was worth it.

With that in mind, Arthur reached out blindly with one hand, scrabbling at the bedside table until his fingers closed around a smooth, curved object – the handle of the metal pitcher he had drunk from before falling asleep, and which no one had come to take away because he had given Merlin the day off. His eyes still shut, he tossed it backwards, in the general direction of the tugging, confident that he would miss. He wasn't _that_ good.

Except, apparently, he was.

Arthur heard the exact moment when the pitcher connected with Merlin's body and he bolted upright in his bed, twisting around to look at Merlin, who swore colourfully – one of the very rare times Arthur had ever heard him utter profanity.

"Ow! _Gods_, Arthur, what the – why can't you ever just throw clothes or a pillow? You idiot – you prat – you –"

Merlin couldn't seem to find or make up a word insulting enough to translate his anger. He fell silent, still glaring at Arthur. One hand was rubbing the top of his head. He must have been leaning over the bed when the pitcher caught him by surprise.

"Damn it," Arthur whispered. "Oh, _damn it_."

He reached out to Merlin; Merlin shrank back from him.

"I'm not – I'm not going to _hurt_ you, you fool," Arthur said roughly. "Let me see."

"I'm fine." Merlin pressed his hand closer to his head. "There's nothing there. I'm fine."

"Let me see," Arthur insisted, standing up, ignoring the tangle of sheets wrapped around his legs.

"Arthur, I'm _fine_."

"No, you're not," Arthur said, feeling sick. "Merlin, I'm sorry –"

"It's _nothing_," Merlin insisted. "I just didn't see it coming. I should have avoided it like I usually do."

Arthur winced. "Don't act like this is your fault –"

"Should I act like it's yours, then? Is that what you want?" Merlin let his hand fall to his side. "It's just a bump, Arthur. I'm not going to die."

"I still shouldn't have –"

"You _should_ be getting dressed," Merlin cut in smoothly, interrupting him for the third time in a row.

Arthur ran off at the mouth. "If you're going to be like this, why did you bother to come back?"

Merlin stiffened, his face going pale. "I wasn't aware that I'd been sacked."

"Well maybe you should have been."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Arthur knew he shouldn't have said them. Merlin backed away, looking as though he'd been struck.

Arthur moved forward, reaching out to hold Merlin back. "Wait. Merlin, I'm sorry –"

Merlin shook his head slowly in disbelief. "You know, Arthur, sometimes you're such a bastard."

"I know, I know," Arthur said. "And I'm –"

"Don't." Merlin's voice was clipped, his tone final. Arthur stopped.

Merlin's slender, pale hand pressed into his chest against the blue cloth of his shirt, as though he had a pain there, and as he shuddered Arthur's gaze jumped to the white skin of his throat, exposed by the dip of his neckerchief.

"You've made it pretty clear that you don't want me around anymore," Merlin said quietly, looking anywhere but at Arthur. "I'm not blind. I get it."

"What –"

"You've been avoiding me for _months_. Always giving me some stupid task or another just so you don't have to see me. Throwing things at me –"

"I _said_ I was sorry," Arthur protested.

"It's fine, Arthur. But next time... just say it, all right?"

"Merlin," Arthur said, feeling like a complete prat. "I haven't –"

"Yeah," Merlin said, looking straight at him. "You have."

"So, what? Are you leaving your job?"

"Just saving you the trouble of sacking me yourself, since it's obviously too much for you."

"Merlin..."

Merlin waited and Arthur knew that, if he could just find the right words, he had the power to make Merlin stay. The right words would fix everything. Hell, at this point, any word would probably do – _Sorry_, or _I know_, or _Don't leave me_. Arthur swallowed, thinking _I should tell you, I should tell you right now_.

And he couldn't. He just couldn't.

Merlin looked away, his eyes half-lidded. "Yeah," he said softly. "That's what I thought."

And Arthur watched him leave, unable to repel the feeling that he'd just lost something invaluable. He had no idea how it had all gone so wrong.

* * *

After that it was only a matter of time before it ended, one way or another. Either they would never speak to each other again, or they would fix this mess between them, and soon.

Merlin didn't leave Camelot. It left Arthur with a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, there was something left to fix. He didn't even move out of Gaius' chambers. But he did make himself scarce; either he spent his days in Gaius' room with patients, or he disappeared into the town. He was hardly ever in the castle corridors, and of course he no longer had any reason to be with Arthur during meals, or council, or anything else.

Arthur missed him. It was stupid; he and Merlin had hardly even been on speaking terms these last few months. But he had known and been friends with Merlin for years now, so he _felt_ Merlin's absence. And he missed him. And he hated his replacement. It wasn't really Tom's fault. Arthur had just forgotten what it was like to have a _real_ manservant – someone who'd been trained for the job. Someone who did everything exactly right without expecting anything. Someone who never spoke up for himself. Someone who put up with Arthur's moodiness without calling him out on it.

Well, to be fair, in the end, Merlin had been a lot like a real manservant. Stiff, boring, complacent.

And hated.

Arthur did hate Merlin – parts of Merlin, at least. He hated the lies, the pain Merlin brought him, and the way they had lost everything. He hated the magic (especially the magic), the betrayal, and the fact that Merlin didn't trust him.

X

Somehow (and Arthur would never, ever admit this) it was Gwaine who ended up orchestrating the confrontation. Two weeks later, in a strange, almost comical reversal of their last conversation about Merlin, Gwaine dragged Arthur to the nearest tavern and got him as damn near to drunk as Arthur, as king, would let himself be in public.

Which wasn't very.

It was still quite enough to loosen his tongue – not to the point of bursting into song, but more than enough for Gwaine to get him to talk about Merlin. Arthur recognised his own strategy as soon as he downed the first amount of alcohol, but he didn't bother to stop Gwaine from ordering another drink. He didn't particularly want to get drunk, but maybe he did want to talk about Merlin to someone.

Gwaine was probably not the best choice, though.

On the other hand, he and Merlin _had_ grown particularly close these last few months – from the moment Arthur and Merlin had started to drift apart. Arthur had noticed. He hadn't even thought to be jealous at first, not when the anger was still fresh. And now... well, now, it would be stupid to be jealous.

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing," Arthur said, swirling the liquid around in his – fourth? fifth? – goblet. "This is about Merlin."

Gwaine didn't bother to lie. "With you, it always is." His gaze drifted to a spot behind Arthur, slightly above his left shoulder. "What happened? Why'd you sack him?"

"I didn't," Arthur said shortly.

Gwaine frowned, like he hadn't been expecting that. "Well, _something_ happened. He wouldn't just leave."

"He did."

Gwaine gestured at his goblet. "Drink that up, would you? I don't think you've had enough yet."

Arthur scowled. "If your plan is to get me drunk in the middle of a tavern..."

"Don't worry, I'll carry you back to the castle," Gwaine promised.

"I look forward to it."

"Oh, I don't doubt it."

Once more, Gwaine's eyes drifted away from Arthur, and Arthur had a sudden, chilling revelation. He turned slowly in his seat, following Gwaine's gaze. Sure enough, there was Merlin, sitting at the other end of the tavern, with three of his knights. Percival, Elyan, and Owain. And Arthur had a sinking suspicion that this was a set-up, that Gwaine wasn't just making him drink so he would talk about Merlin.

He wanted Arthur to talk _to_ Merlin.

And right now, that sounded like a fantastic idea. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it wasn't; either way, Arthur couldn't seem to wrench his eyes away from his ex-manservant. His ex-friend.

"Sometimes," he said softly, more to himself than to Gwaine, "sometimes I just hate him so much. And then, other times..."

Arthur traced the curve of Merlin's neck with his eyes. Took in the set of his jaw, the tired look in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders. Watched how Merlin threw his head back and laughed at something Percival had said, then ducked his head, as though unsure he still had the right to hang with the knights.

_Other times, it's the exact opposite of hatred_.

"He misses you, too, you know," Gwaine said, and suddenly he didn't sound mocking anymore.

Arthur set his goblet down with more force than was justified and dragged his gaze away from Merlin. "I'm not the one who left."

"He didn't leave. He's standing right there."

Arthur's eyes flitted back to Merlin. So close, and yet so far away. Completely untouchable.

"He will, though, won't he? He can't stay in Camelot forever."

"Not forever," Gwaine agreed. "Only as long as you're here."

Arthur's eyes snapped to Gwaine. "You _know_ something," he accused.

Gwaine met his gaze calmly. "Only what's been right in front of your eyes all along."

"No." Arthur was sure of it. There was something knowing in Gwaine's tone. "No, that's not it. You _know_. How do you know? Did he tell you?"

Gwaine outright _laughed_, the bastard. Again, he looked at Merlin. "Do you really think he would tell _me_? When he can't even tell you?"

Arthur felt himself blanch. Through the dulling haze of the alcohol, there came a sharp stab of pain.

"How do you know that?" he asked tersely.

"Like I said. You shouldn't underestimate me."

"_Gwaine_."

The smile was wiped off Gwaine's face. He looked away from Merlin, focusing on Arthur.

"I knew," he said. "When you asked me – I knew. I've known for ages now. I can't remember when it was exactly, but Merlin – he's not exactly _subtle_ about it, is he? And then, you started being all strange and you sacked him. It wasn't much of a leap."

"I didn't _sack_ him –"

"Fine. He left. But he left for a _reason_, didn't he?" Gwaine looked at Arthur pointedly.

Arthur rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, sighing. "Just to be clear, we're talking about his magic here, aren't we?"

A small, stunned silence followed his words. Arthur looked up with the distinct expression that he'd said the wrong thing. Gwaine had gone white with shock, his mouth falling open into a small 'O' of surprise.

"Merlin has _magic_?"

"Damn it," Arthur said, standing up abruptly. "What the hell _were_ you talking about, Gwaine?"

"Shit, of course he has magic!" Gwaine said, his eyes bright. "That's why – the law – it was for _him_, wasn't it?"

"Gwaine!"

"The wyverns! Remember the wyverns? And, come to think of it, all the –"

"Yes, yes, I _know_," Arthur said and, shit, he hadn't had nearly enough alcohol for this conversation. "Gwaine, will you –"

"But then why would you sack him? If you legalised magic, why would you –"

"_I didn't sack him_ –"

"But he left. Why would he do that? What did you mess up?"

"Why does it have to be my fault?" Arthur snapped.

Gwaine looked up at him blankly. "Well, it's not going to be Merlin's fault, is it?"

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "Shows how much you know. What happened with Merlin – it's really none of your business, Gwaine. Especially if you didn't even know about his magic. Seriously, why did you _think_ he left?"

A strange thing happened.

Gwaine ducked his head and blushed. Deeply. Out of embarrassment.

This from Gwaine, the man who had the filthiest repertoire of bawdy tales out of all of Arthur's knights. The man who spoke first and thought later and didn't even have a concept of what a censor was. Gwaine _never_ blushed.

Arthur sat back down.

"It doesn't really matter now," Gwaine said, refusing to look at him, which only piqued his interest even further. "Obviously, I was wrong."

"Maybe not," Arthur said. "Maybe there are other things Merlin is keeping from me –"

"Tell me you don't seriously think you can't trust _Merlin_. That's the height of paranoia, Arthur. If you don't trust _him_, then what chance do the rest of us have?" Gwaine spread his arms wide. "Suddenly I'm not so offended you tried to fool me into revealing more than I wanted to."

"It's not that I don't trust him," Arthur said. "He lies –"

"There's a difference between lying to harm someone, and lying to..." Gwaine hesitated, his expression suddenly turning serious. "Well, lying for other reasons. Not because it's easier, but because... sometimes... it's the right thing to do." Another hesitation. "You can't know everything about everyone, Arthur. Every single one of us has secrets. That's just the way people are."

"That's it?" Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You're taking this remarkably well for someone who didn't know."

Gwaine waved a hand as if to say, _So what?_ "Magic isn't as big a deal as you all seem to think around here. I wish he'd told me, but..." He shrugged. "Let's face it, that was never going to happen, eh? You had to be the first to know. _God_, Arthur. How did you react when he told you? Tell me he didn't leave because of something you said. Oh, you idiot –"

"_Gwaine_." Arthur was growing more annoyed by the minute. "I didn't do _anything_. How could I? He didn't tell me."

Gwaine's eyes widened. "So you know... but he doesn't know you know?"

"Exactly."

"So while you're beating yourself up about trying to talk to him... he's beating himself up trying to talk to you."

Put like that, it did sound stupid. Arthur sighed.

"It's not that simple, Gwaine."

"Yes, it is."

Arthur chanced another glance in Merlin's direction, and immediately wished he hadn't. Merlin was looking right at him, the laughter erased from his expression. Their eyes met, and suddenly Arthur couldn't hear the noise of the tavern anymore – not Owain's raucous laughter, not the rolling die of the gamblers, not the loud chatter around every table. Everything was blocked out, his whole focus narrowing down to a single person: Merlin. Merlin, standing with his back to the wall, Owain and Percival on either side of him. Merlin, who looked rooted to the spot, just as unable to look away as Arthur was.

Arthur stood up.

"I knew you couldn't be that much of an idiot," Gwaine said with an approving grin.

Arthur didn't look back at him as he made his way toward Merlin. He couldn't have dragged his eyes away from Merlin if he'd tried, but he didn't try. Instead he focused on his old manservant, his once-closest friend, storming across the room until they were face-to-face. Merlin, eyes wide, went very pale.

"Sire," Owain said, his eyebrows drawing together. "Is there something –"

Arthur cut him off with a quick hand gesture, still staring at Merlin. "Come with me."

Merlin glanced around quickly, but Arthur already knew he would do it. Didn't he always? He complained about it, sure, but he always ended up obeying Arthur. Following Arthur. _Serving_ Arthur.

God, Arthur missed it.

Merlin's step forward was aborted by Percival's hand on his arm, right above the elbow, stopping him.

"It's all right," Merlin said without so much as glancing at Percival.

Percival's hand dropped to his side, and Arthur had to fight not to let his surprise bleed through. That had been such a blatant show of concern and _protection_, as though Merlin needed to be shielded from Arthur. Percival was _his_ knight. And Merlin was certainly not a damsel in need of rescuing.

Arthur bit his tongue, knowing that he would regret it later if he said anything. The knights had always been protective of Merlin, one way or another. (And, yes, it was ironic, because Merlin had been the one saving their arses day after day.) It just hadn't been Arthur they'd been protecting him from.

"Just – outside, all right?" Arthur said, jerking his thumb in the general direction of the door.

He was painfully aware of his status – kings didn't just _engage_ servants in taverns, for God's sake, let alone their ex-manservant who wasn't even a servant anymore – and of the very public place they were in.

Merlin nodded. He ducked his head and stepped in front of Arthur, breaking eye-contact for the first time, and started for the door at a fast pace, like he wanted to get this over with. Or maybe like he wanted to get away from Arthur, but knew he couldn't.

The street was practically deserted. It was dark outside, and most people kept to their houses at night. _Arthur_ usually stayed in his room at night, but he'd let Gwaine convince him to leave the castle just this once, to relax with his men. Arthur had always known the advantage of being close to the people he expected to have his back, so he had agreed.

Merlin turned to face him. Arthur's eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, and he found something mysterious and secretive in the way Merlin's face was shadowed, his silhouette just an outline against a darker background. He watched Merlin closely for several moments, waiting.

After all this time, he still wanted Merlin to tell him, but now he knew... it wouldn't happen. And they couldn't keep going like this.

"I'm beginning to think you're an even bigger idiot than I thought," Arthur said finally. "You do know magic isn't illegal anymore, don't you?"

Merlin gave him a startled, wide-eyed look. "Er – yes?"

"Then why are you still lying?"

Merlin stiffened. "Lying about what?"

"Don't play the fool," Arthur snapped. "I've had enough. I know."

"You know what, exactly?" Merlin asked, trying to sound confused but unable to keep a hint of panic from creeping into his tone.

"I _know_," Arthur repeated, drilling his meaning into Merlin with his eyes.

Merlin's shoulders didn't slump in defeat, the way Arthur had expected. Instead he went rigid and backed into the wall of the tavern, eyes wide, and despite his obvious fear he continued his charade.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Then let me spell it out for you," Arthur said, moving forward, and it hurt to see Merlin press himself further into the wall, as though he wanted to disappear into it. "Oh, for God's sake, what do you think I'm going to _do_ to you? I know. I've known for months. Why else did you think I did it? Why else would I – God."

He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath to steady his voice. He had prepared this, hadn't he? He had imagined the conversation a hundred times in the last months.

"I changed the law for _you_, you idiot. And I don't think I'd have done it for anyone else. I _know_, Merlin. I know you have magic."

It wasn't relief that crossed Merlin's expression. It was sheer terror. He was pale and trembling, and Arthur thought – _What, does he think I'm going to kill him?_

"Sorcerers aren't executed in Camelot anymore," Arthur said. "Stop –"

"I don't _care_," Merlin said. "I've never cared. It's not the magic, Arthur. It's not the stupid _law_. What do I care about the law?"

Put like that, Arthur thought he rather had a point. Ever since Merlin had arrived in Camelot, he'd been breaking a law that would have him executed without trial. But if not the law –

"You don't know _anything_." Merlin sounded bitter and he was scowling, and – this wasn't really how Arthur had expected this conversation to go. "It's not just _magic_. There are things I've done, Arthur, you can't imagine –"

"So tell me," Arthur said, because now that it was out in the open, he felt all his anger fading away, and he only wanted one thing: to erase the fear and guilt from Merlin's expression, because it had no right to be there. "Tell me, and I'll know."

Merlin shook his head. "I can't. I can't, Arthur. You don't understand –"

"I will," Arthur promised.

He thought he had a good idea of what Merlin was going to admit to – the falling branches, the flying balls of light, the dead magical beasts. And while it was unsettling to think that Merlin had such instinctive, powerful magic, Arthur had had _months_ to get used to the idea. In the end, it made him feel better to know that all along, Merlin hadn't been completely defenceless when he followed him into death traps.

"Just tell me," Arthur said, as gently as he could. "You can trust me."

Merlin didn't say anything. He only looked at Arthur with wide, terrified eyes, a look that cut a painful path straight to Arthur's heart, and he shook his head again. He shuffled a half-step to the right, turning away from Arthur, his intent obvious.

Arthur stepped forward, closing the last of the distance between them, and caught Merlin's wrist. Merlin didn't flinch away the way he might have at Arthur's touch; instead he slowly turned back and met Arthur's eyes again.

Arthur kissed him.

It was slow, achingly slow, but decisive, one hand rising to cup Merlin's face and hold him in place, the other loosening from around Merlin's wrist and instead going to his hip. He hadn't planned it. The idea had never even crossed his mind, but now, like this, it felt right, like the obvious point his obsession had been leading him to all along. Arthur wasn't sure what he was trying to say with the kiss, but his lips moved against Merlin's, shaping the words _I'm sorry_ and _Forgive me_ and _Thank you._ Merlin's hands rested lightly on Arthur's chest, pressed flat against him, and he was perfectly still, his lips slack against Arthur's. Arthur never wanted it to end, because when it did, how was he supposed to look Merlin in the eye again?

And then it did end, slowly but firmly, when Arthur registered an increase of pressure against his chest. Ice settled in the bottom of his stomach when he realised that Merlin was pushing him away. He blinked and stepped back, staring at Merlin who looked at him with eyes that were full of shadows Arthur couldn't begin to understand.

"I can't," Merlin said, his voice chillingly hollow. "Arthur, I... I just can't."

And Arthur didn't know whether he meant _I can't trust you_, or _I can't do this_. He knew he should say something, anything, maybe an apology or an excuse or _anything_, but his voice was still lost, lodged somewhere between the back of his throat and the lips against which Merlin's mouth, warm and soft, had been pressed. He tried to find the right words to apologise, to tell Merlin he only wanted their friendship back, but there were no right words. The rejection hadn't fully registered yet, because he had thought that once the truth was out, things would work themselves out. He had been _so sure_ that Merlin felt – that Merlin felt –

Merlin shook his head. And then –

Arthur thought he could probably run faster than Merlin if he tried, but he was too stunned to do anything but watch him flee.

Again.

* * *

Now Arthur knew, and Merlin knew he knew, and things were still every bit as shitty as they had been. Maybe even worse, because Arthur kept thinking back to the last few moments of their confrontation, and it always flooded him with a fresh wave of humiliation. What had he been _thinking_?

He hadn't been thinking at all. For a brief instant, nothing had mattered except the warmth of Merlin's body pressed against his, the jut of his hipbone beneath Arthur's hand, the smooth curve of his jaw as Arthur held his face in one hand, the perfect alignment lips against lips, and it had felt _so right_ – Arthur had never felt anything like it before.

And then Merlin had pushed him away.

And then Merlin had run away.

Arthur had thought that telling Merlin would fix _everything_, that somehow they could forget about all that had happened in the last few months – all the anger, the bitterness, and the words that should never had been spoken. But it seemed like once more he'd been wrong, and there was still something he didn't understand. Something Merlin wouldn't tell him, not even when Arthur had told him – had _shown_ him – everything. He'd risked it, stupidly, and – Merlin had pushed him away.

He couldn't get the moment out of his head, that moment of ice-cold clarity when he had registered the firm press of Merlin's hand against his chest.

_"I can't."_

He hated Merlin for making this so complicated when it could be so _simple_. Before this, it had always been easy between them, and Arthur thought he knew why. He only had to look at Merlin to know why. His stupid, stupid Merlin.

* * *

He hunted Merlin down exactly two days after the confrontation – just long enough to swallow down his embarrassment, but not long enough to have forgotten his anger.

Merlin was easy to find. Something seemed to keep him tied to Camelot (and Arthur thought he had a good idea what that _something_ was), so any hiding place would have easily been found. Arthur was only slightly annoyed when he found that the reason Merlin's few belongings were no longer in his room was that he had moved them to the other side of the castle. In Gwaine's room.

"Damn it, not already," Gwaine said when Arthur flung the door open. "I _told_ him it was a bad idea."

Arthur ignored him, his eyes going straight to Merlin, who had been reading a book in a corner of the room. "Just how stupid can you be?"

Gwaine stood up from where he'd been sitting by his fireplace. "I'll leave you to to it, then. It's not like it's _my_ room or anything."

Arthur hardly noticed when the door clicked shut behind him, but he did notice the way Merlin swiftly stood up from the desk, a panicked look in his eyes.

"Oh no you don't," Arthur said, crossing over to the other side of the room in three strides and gripping Merlin's wrist tightly. "You are _not_ running away from me again. Talk to me. For God's sake, Merlin, just – talk!"

"I _told_ you, I –"

"You what? You _can't_? Because you don't trust me? Believe me, Merlin – whatever you're hiding from me, whatever it is you don't want me to know, it can't be worse than this." He gestured between them. "The silence, the lies – I don't want any of it. I only want the truth."

"I'm not lying because I _want_ to."

"Then why? Because you think _I_ want you to? I found out about your magic, Merlin, and I didn't condemn you. I didn't send you away, I didn't have you killed. You lied to me for years about something you knew I hated, and _it's all right_. I changed the law and I only did it for you, because I _trust_ you. So you could at least trust me enough to tell me the truth. I deserve that much."

Merlin pulled his wrist out of Arthur's grasp; Arthur let him.

"If I tell you," Merlin said, his voice very low, and Arthur knew, in that instant, that he _would_ tell him, "you _won't_ trust me anymore."

"I will," Arthur promised recklessly, because he knew he would. "Whatever it is, Merlin –"

"Don't say that when you have no idea what I've done."

Merlin looked around the room helplessly, as though looking for an escape route. His eyes flitted over to the door Gwaine had left by.

"It's not his fault, you know," he said. "After last time, I realised I would have to tell you, because you wouldn't let it go. I thought staying here would buy me a few days, at least. I didn't expect you to find me so soon."

"Give me some credit, Merlin."

Merlin granted him a smile, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He was silent for a few moments, and Arthur knew better than to break the silence with a question. He could feel it coming, the moment he had been waiting for. _Trust._ Merlin would –

"I killed Agravaine."

Silence.

Not the bated-breath, anticipatory silence that had preceded Merlin's words, but a shell-shocked, hollow moment of silence so complete that Arthur could feel his heart pounding in his ears.

"_Oh_," he said, racking his mind to call up memories, and yes, actually, that made sense, how had he not seen it? Merlin had been so quiet afterwards, so sober. "Oh, right. Well – he was a traitor."

Merlin nodded, looking like he was bracing himself for more. And Arthur wasn't sure why, because even though it was a shock that Merlin could kill with a word, Arthur had no fond recollection of Agravaine.

"His men, too," Merlin said, as though trying to explain why Arthur should hate him. "Because they came too close. Agravaine found out my secret, so I had to kill him."

Arthur shivered at the flat way Merlin delivered the words, but he tried not to attach too much importance to it.

"He was a traitor," he repeated firmly. "It's all right, Merlin."

Merlin smiled humourlessly. "It's all right," he repeated, but seemed to take no comfort in the words. "Do you want to hear more?"

Arthur swallowed, but nodded decisively. "Anything you want to tell me."

"Have to tell you," Merlin corrected. "Or it's not fair." He hesitated, then gave a dry laugh. "You're not going to like the next one. Do you remember the Great Dragon?"

"It'd be hard to forget," Arthur said, already feeling a coil of dread in his stomach.

He reached out to touch Merlin's shoulder, but Merlin flinched away.

"Don't tell me –"

"I released him," Merlin said. "All those deaths, when he attacked Camelot – they were my fault."

"No," Arthur breathed, rearing back, and a thought came to him, like a whisper in his father's voice: _All magic is evil_. "No, that's ridiculous. Why would you do that to us? Camelot is your home."

"I'm from Essetir originally," Merlin said, "even though you seem to forget it. I promised the dragon I would release him if he helped me with a problem, and I kept my word."

He was still speaking in a strange, flat monotone, sounding sickeningly detached. Arthur had to struggle not to shiver.

"And then," Merlin went on mercilessly, because after all, Arthur _had_ said _Anything_, "you didn't kill him."

"You did?" Arthur asked, but somehow he already knew the answer before Merlin shook his head.

"No. I let him go. I sent him away, and I've seen him several times since then."

"He's still in Camelot," Arthur breathed. "He's still alive, and you – you _let_ him live?"

"I'm a dragonlord," Merlin said. "Balinor was my father. I couldn't kill the last dragon. We are kin."

"You're not – you're _not_," Arthur said, refusing to believe it. "You wouldn't. That beast almost destroyed Camelot! Do you have any idea how many people died? Leon almost – my _knights_ –"

"I know," Merlin said. He laughed again, still that terrible, humourless laugh. "Why did you _think_ I never told you, Arthur? It wasn't the magic. I haven't been worried about the magic in years. But lies pile up, Arthur. And I knew that, when I did tell you, it would be like this." He hesitated. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"I don't understand," Arthur said, still reeling from the revelations. "Why would you? How could you? We could have all died –"

"You would never have died," Merlin said. "That's what I'm for."

And he said it so plainly, so dully that it was like an ugly reproach, and not the glorious, selfless declaration it should have been.

"But the _people_ –"

"Wait," Merlin said. "Just – wait. There's worse, and I'm not sure you'll ever want to talk to me again after you hear it, so... wait."

Arthur waited, thinking _worse isn't possible_ and _no_ and _please stop_. Merlin seemed to struggle to breathe for a moment, and when he spoke again, there was something strangled in his voice, something reassuringly fragile and human.

"I'm sorry, Arthur, I'm so sorry. But... Dragoon. It was me. I used an ageing spell, and –"

"I almost had you burnt," Arthur said, backing away so suddenly he almost bumped into the table behind him. "I almost _killed_ you. That day at the pyre, I always wondered how he escaped –"

"I changed back," Merlin said. "Every time. Arthur, that's not it. It's not the execution. Arthur, I'm Dragoon. I killed your _father_."

Arthur breathed in sharply, because he hadn't forgotten, of course he hadn't. His mind had just been pushing the memory as far away as it could, because it had been one of the most difficult moments of his life. He had chosen to place his trust in a sorcerer, only to have it so cruelly betrayed and broken, and he had seen his father die before his eyes, die a mad and broken man. And to think that _Merlin_ –

"You didn't," he said, more to convince himself than Merlin. "Gaius said Dragoon had tried to save my father, had done his best, but Morgana –" He looked beseechingly at Merlin, wanting it to be true.

Merlin nodded. "I did try. But he wouldn't have died just then if I hadn't cast the spell. I'm sure of that. Maybe if I hadn't –"

"No," Arthur said, cutting him off because he didn't want to hear this. _Anything_, but not this. "You didn't kill him. You didn't."

Merlin nodded again, and there were tears in his eyes. "You said –"

"_It wasn't you_," Arthur said fiercely. "I know you, Merlin."

There was another memory from that night. A memory of Merlin, waiting up all night for Arthur, just to _be_ there for him. And that was the memory Arthur would choose to remember. He reached out again, wanting to touch Merlin, to reassure him – _See, I'm still here, we'll be fine_ – but again Merlin drew back.

"I'm not finished yet."

Arthur's stomach dropped, but he drew back his hand and nodded stiffly, motioning for Merlin to continue.

"Morgana," Merlin said, and sounded so broken that Arthur thought he was going to cry. "It was my fault."

Arthur thought, _No, please no, isn't this enough?_

He said, "What do you mean?"

"When she discovered her magic, she was afraid," Merlin said. "Her magic didn't corrupt her. It was her fear that did. I brought her to the druids, and I don't think I've ever seen her so happy. She looked free, like she finally knew who she was and that there wasn't anything to be afraid of. And I could have given her that all along. Her dreams were never just dreams. I _knew_ she had magic. She practically told me, and I said it had to be her imagination, she must be mistaken."

Arthur wanted to interrupt him, to ask _how long_ he had known, but he didn't. If he cut in right now, especially with an accusation, he thought Merlin might break down. And he didn't resent Merlin, not really. He couldn't. Not anymore. Not since he had realised how much he cared.

"I let her believe it _was_ something to be afraid of, something she shouldn't mention to anyone, not even her friends. And I could have helped her. I could have shown her that magic can be good. Morgana _was_ good. Morgause corrupted her, but before that, her own fear had already begun to do its work. I could have stopped it all, and then none of this would ever have happened. She would still be here with us, and –" Merlin stopped and seemed to have trouble breathing. "I wish I had just said something," he said finally.

"You couldn't have known," Arthur said, even though he was thinking, _You should have, you let her down, we all did_. "No one can know the future."

"I _did_, though."

Arthur flinched. _Of course. _Prophecies. Seers. Visions. Merlin was a sorcerer, wasn't he?

"The dragon always told me she would turn out to be trouble. He knew, all along. And I could have prevented it." Merlin stopped again. "I _poisoned_ her. The immortal army," he said quickly. "The first one. It was her fault. I poisoned her to make Morgause stop. And I think that's when we lost her, really lost her. Even when she came back, she said she forgave me, and I believed her – but she was lying. She'd changed."

"Poison?" Arthur repeated.

"I made her believe it was water," Merlin said, and it sounded as though the words were being ripped from his throat. "I asked her to drink it, and she said she wasn't thirsty, but she drank it when I insisted. She still trusted me, back then. After that – it was over. And it was my fault."

"She was already lost," Arthur said gently. "You know that."

Merlin shook his head. "If I hadn't –"

"I didn't see it, either," Arthur said. "She was my _sister_, and I never noticed until it was too late. I never realised Agravaine was a traitor. It's _good_ you were there, Merlin. Without you it would have been worse. You –" _You took the fall for me when you knew I couldn't bear it_. "You shouldn't blame yourself for the things _I_ failed to do."

"I know you're the king," Merlin said, "but sometimes you're so self-centred. It's not always about you. We simple peasants _can_ actually do things, you know."

There was more amusement than bitterness in his voice, and Arthur knew his attempt to comfort had been welcome.

"Is there anything else?" he ventured to ask, sending a quick prayer to the skies that the answer would be _no_.

"There's a lot more you don't know," Merlin said.

And then he smiled, and it was beautiful.

"But those were the most important things."

Arthur reached out, his hand closing around Merlin's wrist, pulling him into a quick hug. He released him almost immediately, already missing the warmth of Merlin's body pressed against his.

"You really are an idiot," he said. "You should have told me all this _ages_ ago. You shouldn't have had to do it all alone."

Merlin looked a little fazed by the hug, but he still managed to compose himself enough to grin. "Excuse me for not having servants to do my business for me."

It could have been a joke, but there was too much truth in it for it not to sting. Arthur had never done anything alone, not even his stupid quest. He had always had his knights. He had always had Merlin. They had been people he counted on, people he knew could lighten his burden.

"Don't joke," Arthur said. "Not about this."

"You can't just order me around."

"I'm the _king_."

"And I'm not your servant anymore, remember? And technically, I'm not even your subject. Essetir, remember?"

It was a shitty argument. Legally, it wouldn't stand five seconds in front of any judge – especially since Arthur himself would insist on judging the case. Arthur could have come up with a dozen retorts, but instead he swallowed nervously and turned his head away.

"About that... I thought, since we cleared everything up... Maybe you should come back."

"Maybe I should come _back_," Merlin repeated.

There was something strange about his voice, something like disbelief, and Arthur was suddenly reminded of – _"Maybe you should have been sacked."_ He winced.

"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly. "For what happened back then. For everything that happened these past few months, really. We just... we made a mess of it, didn't we?"

"Yeah," Merlin said. "Arthur –"

"It's fine if you don't want to," Arthur said quickly, his heart heart sinking. "I understand. I just thought I'd... suggest it."

"Right. But, Arthur –"

"It's just, I always thought you were horribly incompetent, but Tom is so _boring_, he couldn't hold a candle up to you – and don't tell anyone I said this, but you were actually quicker at polishing my armour, even though I suspect magic had something to do with –"

"Arthur, _shut up_!"

Arthur closed his mouth, stunned into silence for a complete second. And then:

"Did you just tell me to _shut up_?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes!"

"You can't just –"

"Will you let me _speak_?" Merlin scowled at him. "I haven't answered yet, have I?"

Hope flared in Arthur's chest. "So does that mean –"

"Are we friends?"

That shut Arthur up a little more effectively. He stopped mid-sentence and froze, staring at Merlin. Merlin, who looked serious and not at all like he was joking. It took five seconds for Arthur to regain the ability to speak.

"What kind of question is that?"

"I mean it," Merlin said. "Are we friends? Because we haven't been, lately, you know. You've been a prat, and by that I mean you've been even worse than usual."

"Aren't friends supposed to trust each other?" Arthur shot back.

"I've always had your back," Merlin said, looking pained. "I've lost count of how many times I've saved your life. But I had to lie to do all that, Arthur. You would never have let me close to you if you'd known."

"Maybe not at first. But later –"

"I would still have lied at first. Would it have been any better?"

_Maybe not, but it would have hurt less_. Arthur looked away.

"Do you want your job back or not?"

"Of course I want it back," Merlin replied, with such firm conviction in his voice that it made Arthur hope again. "I still want to be your servant until the day I die. But we can't keep going on like this, with all these secrets and lies."

"Well, whose fault was that?" Arthur asked, glaring at Merlin, piqued by the hint of an accusation. "_I_ didn't lie to you."

"But you kept secrets."

"Name one."

Merlin gave him a long, appraising look that sent an apprehensive shiver running down Arthur's spine. Seconds before Merlin spoke, he already knew what he was going to say.

"You kissed me."

Arthur almost said, _That's not a secret. You know about it, don't you?_ But he knew Merlin didn't literally mean the kiss. He meant all the thoughts and feelings that had led up to the kiss. And those, Arthur had definitely never shared. He wanted to say, _That's not fair, it's not the same thing_. But it was still a secret.

Arthur swallowed. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I did."

Merlin's expression was unreadable."Why?"

Arthur looked into Merlin's eyes. The question was direct, but Arthur couldn't answer as bluntly as Merlin had asked. It just wasn't _in_ him. The words refused to come, and his pride would never unbend enough.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Merlin, mercifully, averted his gaze, a blush spreading from beneath his neckerchief to his face. "I never knew."

"You weren't meant to."

"You have _Gwen_, Arthur."

Pain and guilt sliced through Arthur's gut as he thought of her. Gwen, his queen, his wife.

"I know."

"We can't." Merlin sounded final.

Arthur blew out a sigh. "I _know_. But, if we could, would you –"

"Don't be an idiot."

Merlin didn't sound bitter. He sounded a little disbelieving, but mostly very fond, and just like that, Arthur thought back to his conversation with Gwaine in the tavern. That stupid wreck of a conversation that had gone so wrong.

_"He can't stay in Camelot forever."_

_"Not forever," Gwaine had agreed. "Only as long as you're here."_

And then, when Arthur had asked what he had _thought_ they were talking about, Gwaine had been embarrassed. At the time, Arthur hadn't understood.

Now, he thought he did.

"Merlin..."

"We _can't_."

Arthur nodded, because Merlin was right, but that didn't mean he couldn't wish things were different. "How long?"

"I don't know," Merlin said, running a hand through his hair, making it stand up on end. "A long time. Probably longer than you have. Don't let it get to your head."

"Gwaine knows."

Merlin jerked back slightly, then gave a short laugh. "I'm not sure why I'm even surprised. I've never been very subtle about it."

"That's what he said."

"Do you talk about me a lot with Gwaine?" Merlin crossed his arms over his chest. "I really need to have a word with him."

"It was just the once. You should thank him. It led to our conversation that night."

"I think I remember that one. Was it the one that went _spectacularly_ wrong?"

Merlin looked at him pointedly, and Arthur felt himself flush. God, but he wanted to kiss Merlin again. He _needed_ to.

He couldn't.

"We're still friends, aren't we?" he asked.

Merlin smiled. "What kind of question is that?"

* * *

He had his best friend back. He had his manservant back. He had everything right where he'd wanted it, almost exactly like it had been before. And he still wanted more.

It wasn't Merlin's fault. It wasn't Gwen's fault (and the thought of Gwen made him cringe with guilt). It really wasn't anyone's fault that Arthur wasn't happy with what he had, because what he had was golden and he knew it. He had a wife who adored him and was strong and clever. He had a manservant who had made him into the king he was and would probably continue to shape his decisions until they died. And yes, that _was_ a good thing, because Merlin had always brought out the best in Arthur.

Merlin wasn't just his manservant. He wasn't even just his friend, if there was such a thing as "just" a friend. And he wasn't just someone Arthur couldn't get out of his head. He was Arthur's _destiny_.

It creeped Arthur out a little the first time Mordred mentioned it. Mordred had come clean to the court and the other knights about his magic, and they had all reacted surprisingly well. He hardly took precautions anymore when talking to Arthur about magic – and, really, he didn't have any reason to. But that particular subject unsettled Arthur for some reason.

"You've been foretold for many years," Mordred told him, his posture utterly relaxed as he leaned against the barrier around the training ground and watched Gwaine pummel one of the younger knights. "You and Merlin both. Every prophecy that mentions you has him in there somewhere, like you can't be separated. I knew you two would eventually make up. You can't help it. It's your destiny."

A shiver ran up Arthur's spine. "What does that mean? Is magic controlling us?"

Mordred laughed. These past few months, he had grown increasingly comfortable around the other knights and around Arthur, dropping titles and ceremonial address. "Magic controls _everything_, Arthur. It's in the air you breathe and the water – or the wine – you drink. Yes, you could say your destiny was shaped by magic. But if it makes you feel better, Merlin is magic."

"I know that."

"No," Mordred said. "I mean, Merlin _is_ magic. He was born of magic and _for_ magic. He was born for the sake of every magic user there is, every magical creature in existence. He was meant to show you how powerful and how beautiful magic can be. And you were meant to allow magic back into the heart of your kingdom." His smile was so light and free that it warmed Arthur's heart. "You can feel it, can't you? How much things have changed since magic became legal again. It's everywhere."

Arthur did feel it. It had begun slowly, like a trickle of hope and joy, but now it was more like a wave crashing into him when he opened his eyes each morning. Everything was sharper, more lively somehow, more _alive_. Sometimes, he wondered how he had ever believed magic could only be used for evil. Merlin had proved him wrong. _Mordred_ had proved him wrong.

Arthur asked, "Do you want to spar with me?"

Mordred looked at him, startled. In all the time he had been a knight, he had only crossed blades with Arthur once or twice. Arthur knew he was stupidly protective of his youngest knight, and also tended to underestimate him. He let the knights tease and prank him, and regarded him almost as a weakest link – not in that he was a worse fighter than any of them, but because he was so _young_.

A slow grin spread across Mordred's face when he realised it wasn't a joke. "Are you sure? You might lose."

Arthur let out a sharp bark of laughter. "You've grown cocky, Mordred."

"I have one advantage you don't."

"And what's that?"

"Magic," Mordred replied with a cocksure smile.

A chill went up Arthur's spine. "You would use your magic in a sword fight?"

"I'll be using it on the battlefield. It's an advantage like any other; I would be a fool not to use it."

Arthur looked at Mordred, wondering at the surreal exchange. How could he have such assurance, such confidence, when only months previously he could have been executed for the same words? It took all Arthur had not to interpret the words as a threat, but only as the challenge they were meant to be.

"All right," he said, waving Merlin over with a gesture. "Let's see what that magic of yours can do."

The pleased way Mordred's eyes lit up made it worth it. Merlin walked up to them, holding out Arthur's sword.

"Who are you going to fight?"

"Mordred," Arthur replied, nodding in the general direction of his knight.

He didn't miss the way Merlin tensed, but put it down to the jealousy that Merlin had carried with him for months before Arthur told him he knew. He held up his sword, giving it a few test swings before making his way to the centre of the training ground, Mordred right behind him. They had warmed up earlier, so they didn't miss a moment before getting into position, facing each other, only a few steps apart. Mordred was still smiling, his muscles loose and relaxed. Arthur felt himself tense up involuntarily at the mere thought of magic.

He waited, inviting Mordred to make the first move, almost teasing him into it. To Mordred's credit, the fight started off in the most standard manner possible without any magic sparks. When their swords clashed for the first time, Arthur was half-expecting fire to ignite between them, but nothing happened. Bit by bit, Arthur felt himself relax as he fell into a familiar pattern, attacking and defending, easily dominating the fight. There was a thin veil of sweat over Mordred's brow, and his eyes were narrowed in concentration, focused on Arthur's sword arm. Suddenly, he looked up, his eyes meeting Arthur's, pupils blown wide, and – something changed.

Arthur barely deflected Mordred's next movement in time, and Mordred followed up with a series of lightning-fast blows that had Arthur backing away, unable to counter-attack. And Arthur wasn't _slow_. He had never been slow. It was more like Mordred had enhanced his own speed, until his sword was hardly more than a blur. Arthur couldn't anticipate his strikes, or even block them effectively; he was quickly accumulating hits that would turn to bruises later. He kept backing up, ducking away, defending himself as much as he could. No man could keep that speed up forever, could he?

As he tried to circle around Mordred, wondering how much longer he could last before Mordred simply lunged forward and disarmed him, Arthur caught sight of Merlin, standing straight and pale on the edge of the training ground, white-knuckled fingers clenched around the barrier, eyes fixed on the pair of them. _Afraid_.

The realisation hit Arthur like a rock. He stepped back, his mind racing nearly as fast as his pulse. It had been a long time since one of his knights posed this much of a challenge to him. It unsettled him, but that wasn't all it was. The knowledge that he was fighting _magic_ scared him. Mordred could... he could...

Mordred stepped back suddenly, lowering his sword and holding his free hand up to signal the end of the fight. All the tension left Arthur as he took in a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. Mordred looked at him as he sheathed his sword. He was still flushed from the exertion and the adrenaline of victory, but his expression was uncertain, as though he feared he'd crossed a line.

"I yield," he said quietly, looking into Arthur's eyes. Then, loudly enough for the others to hear: "I yield."

Arthur felt himself flush with anger and humiliation. Did Mordred think he was doing him a _favour_?

"That's ridiculous."

"Sire –"

"You were going to beat me," Arthur said loudly, swallowing his pride. "Why did you stop?"

Mordred glanced around, taking in the expressions of the other knights – some disapproving, others only confused. "It wasn't a fair fight."

"No fight is fair," Arthur said. "The better fighter always wins."

"I was using magic –"

"It's a weapon like any other. Don't make excuses for _me_."

Mordred bristled, anger flashing across his fingers. "Magic is _not_ a weapon. That's why I stopped. I shouldn't have used it that way, not against you. And I won't do it again." He turned away from Arthur to look pleadingly in the direction of – of _Merlin_, Arthur realised with a jolt. "I'm sorry."

Merlin gave him a tense nod, but it could equally have meant _I forgive you_ or _I'll kill you for this_. Arthur spared a moment to be amused by the fact that Mordred was apologising to Merlin – as though Merlin were his guardian – before he realised that actually, yes, Merlin _was_ his guardian, and he'd been genuinely scared for Arthur's sake during the duel with Mordred.

"For pity's sake," Arthur said, finally sheathing his own sword. "I'm _fine_, Merlin, you complete and utter girl. And you –" He pointed at Mordred – "are not getting away with this. We'll fight again."

"And I look forward to it, sire," Mordred replied graciously, eyes still on Merlin.

Arthur snapped his fingers. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Mordred cut his eyes to Arthur, his expression expectant.

"What was that?" Arthur asked. "What did you do? It felt like I was slowed down."

"Not exactly. I played with your perceptions a little, making you _feel_ sluggish. An outside observer – your knights, for instance – wouldn't have noticed anything except you strangely not countering anything."

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "Clever spell. But why choose to focus on that? My speed isn't the most remarkable thing about my fighting style. You could have done something else."

"I could have," Mordred agreed. "I could have disarmed you and knocked you out with a spell. Not a very interesting fight."

"_Interesting_," Merlin said, full of disbelief and reproach. He'd walked up to them while Mordred was explaining. "You did it because it was _interesting_?"

"And because you wouldn't have let me knock him out," Mordred said, glancing at him. "I'd be dead before I even tried."

Arthur didn't miss the unpleasant tension in the air between the two sorcerers, or the fact that Mordred's words weren't meant as a joke.

* * *

Two hours later, Arthur found an excuse to delay the council meeting he had in favour of returning to his room and confronting Merlin.

"I want to know what it is."

Merlin looked up from the shirt he was trying to smooth down into an unwrinkled state by flattening it out on the table. _Arthur_'s shirt, obviously. He didn't care much about his own clothes.

"Excuse me?"

"You're hiding something from me. I want to know what it is," Arthur repeated.

Merlin smiled. "Haven't we already had this conversation?"

Arthur stood with his back against the door, arms crossed over his chest. "I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't lie anymore."

"We did. I mean, I'm not. I'm not lying, Arthur."

"There's something you haven't told me. You and Mordred both. I just realised – it doesn't make _sense_." Arthur made sure Merlin was giving him his full attention before continuing. "Why did you want him dead?"

Merlin immediately looked down at the shirt again. "What do you mean?"

He was playing stupid. Arthur gritted his teeth and walked up to him, snatched the shirt out of his hands, and tossed it to the floor, ignoring Merlin's protests ("Gods, Arthur, do you have any idea how _disgusting_ your floor is?"). It was a goddamn _shirt_, not anything important. Not anything Merlin, a _sorcerer_, should be doing.

Why the hell had he agreed to be Arthur's manservant again?

"I haven't forgotten about the Disir, you idiot. You would have let Mordred die rather than let magic back into Camelot. I've thought about it a lot, but no matter how you look at it – it makes no sense. And," Arthur went on, watching as the blood drained from Merlin's face, "the Disir let him live. When I refused to do as they wanted, they let him live, which was what _I_ wanted. Why did they do that?"

Merlin swallowed. Averted his gaze.

And lied.

"I don't know."

Arthur felt his fingers curl into a fist. "What do I have to do to make you _trust_ me, Merlin? I thought we were past this."

"We are," Merlin said, his words rushed. "I do trust you, I trust you with my life. I swear, Arthur, this isn't – it's not just about me. I can't tell you. I would if I could."

"It's about _me_," Arthur said. "I have a right to know. I made the decision to refuse the Disir – and now I've gone back on that. I want to know what it _means_. I need to know. Have I endangered Camelot? What aren't you telling me, Merlin? And don't tell me you don't _know_. You've told enough lies."

"Are you never going to forgive me for that?" Merlin asked, suddenly sounding resentful. "You keep going on about it, like you think I've forgotten, but look, it was as difficult for me as it was for you – maybe more so, even, because you didn't _know_, except close to the end – and I wish you'd stop bringing it up. I know, all right? I know it was wrong, but I had a choice and I chose the lesser of two evils."

"What would the worse evil have been?" Arthur found himself asking, hardly noticing that he was being led away from the topic of Mordred.

"Leaving Camelot," Merlin replied. He lowered his voice. "Leaving you."

It felt like Merlin had stabbed him. Arthur felt the sharp pain in his gut and winced, because as much as the words and the tone of Merlin's voice were both warm and _loving_, they hurt. _"We can't."_

"But you _did_ leave me," Arthur said, trying to sound casual and not like he hated the very memory. "Why? I mean, really. Don't give me any 'You didn't want me around,' because we both know that's not true."

"I was afraid you'd find out," Merlin said after a beat. "You were getting suspicious, and I thought putting some distance between us would allow me to keep protecting you without risking being found out."

"It mattered that much to you," Arthur said wonderingly. "Your secret. You would have let it tear apart our friendship if it meant you could keep your magic secret."

"I'm sorry."

Arthur was sorry, too. Merlin had given so much. Done so much. Sacrificed so much. And for what?

_"I can't."_

_"We can't."_

"Do you sometimes wish –" Arthur began, but stopped when he saw the look in Merlin's eyes.

It was a stupid, unfair question. Unfair to Gwen. Unfair to Merlin. Unfair to everyone, because Arthur _did_ love Gwen and Merlin knew it. But it was _different_ with Merlin, something completely separate from anything Arthur had ever known. He wished he could label it, but what good would that do?

_"We can't."_

Would it help if he knew the full extent what he could never have? If he knew exactly what Merlin was, what they were meant to be?

The words tumbled out of their own accord, against his better judgement. "Can I see your magic?"

Merlin gave him a startled look, like a hunted rabbit. "What?"

"I've never really _seen_ you use magic. I realise you've used it around me dozens of times, but..."

Arthur shrugged helplessly. He couldn't put a word on what he wanted, exactly, but he remembered the first time he had witnessed Mordred's magic and how powerful a realisation it had been. Somehow, it had felt peaceful and beautiful. He wanted to have that with Merlin.

"Do you want to?" Merlin asked, his expression cautious. "Do you really? Because if this is just to reassure me –"

"Oh, yes," Arthur said. "I'm terribly concerned about what you think, to the point of suffering extreme discomfort just to _reassure_ you. Please go on."

Merlin shot him a filthy look.

"I mean it, Merlin. I want to see it." A thought occurred to him. "I mean, if _you_ want to show me."

"Don't be stupid." Merlin stared at him for a few more moments, still cautious. "I'm not sure what you're expecting."

"Show me anything."

Merlin turned his gaze away, his expression thoughtful as he stared off into emptiness. Arthur felt the hugeness of the moment. How long had he wanted this without even knowing it? He had thought that Merlin knowing he knew would be the end of it, but they still had so much more to share. Merlin had never once used magic in front of Arthur with the intention that he would _see_. Arthur had no idea what he could do.

Arthur reached out, closing his fingers around Merlin's wrist. Merlin glanced up at him, a question in his eyes he didn't need to voice.

"Do something to me."

He felt Merlin tense beneath his touch, but he didn't let go and Merlin didn't look away.

"I want..." Arthur hesitated. He wanted many things, but he finally settled for: "I want you to know I trust you."

"I already know," Merlin said, but he didn't say he wouldn't do it.

He took a few more moments to think about it, never looking away from Arthur's eyes. Finally, he gave a sharp, decisive nod and in the next instant, the words of the spell were rolling off his tongue – words Arthur had never heard before and couldn't understand, but somehow recognised all the same. Merlin's eyes glowed gold, and a strange feeling washed over Arthur like diluted warmth, resonating within him in ways he didn't understand. It was nothing like Mordred's little show of lights, or the way he had muddled Arthur's senses when they had fought. This was intimate, like a gift, soothing his apprehensions and sending him a message, a thought. _I trust you_.

"What was that?" Arthur asked when the feeling faded, leaving him feeling strangely bereft. His fingers were still wrapped around Merlin's wrist, and he didn't want to lose the touch. "It felt..." Beautiful.

Merlin looked as stunned as Arthur felt, his pupils blown wide with shock. Arthur wondered whether he had felt anything coming from _him_, and if that was why he was so pale.

"It was telepathy," Merlin said. "I don't know why I even tried. It's only supposed to work between magic users. Sometimes, it can work with a non-magical person who is particularly sensitive to it, but you're not. You're really _not_. I don't think you could be more closed to magic if you tried."

But the look he gave Arthur was nowhere near frustrated. It was so full of warmth and hope that it almost hurt to look at it.

"You _do_ trust me," he said, open joy in his voice.

"Don't be stupid," Arthur said, feeling himself flush, because there was his answer – yes, Merlin had felt it. He had probably felt _everything_. _God_. "Why did it work? I could –" He hesitated, remembering the soft, warm embrace of the magic wrapping around him. "I could _feel_ you."

Merlin gave a little nod, that strange look still in his eyes, a smile still pulling at his lips like he couldn't help it. "I've heard that... sometimes, the bond between two people is strong enough that the most basic emotions can be transmitted."

"We have a bond?"

"You sound surprised."

"Not really," Arthur said. "I suppose I never thought about it, but it makes sense. Mordred said something to that effect. Something about a prophecy?"

"Oh, yes," Merlin said, sitting down on the edge of the table, apparently tired of standing around. "We were _foretold_. You, a king, and me, a sorcerer." There was a little irony in his voice, but his smile was true. "You're going to do great things, Arthur. Just wait."

Arthur shook his head in disbelief. "How powerful _are_ you?"

"I don't know. And don't look at me like that, it's _true_. It's not like magic is something you can quantify. I'm powerful enough to have survived this long."

"Are you more powerful than Mordred? He seems to respect you."

"He doesn't," Merlin said shortly.

Arthur waited – he'd stopped being surprised by the dislike and distrust Merlin had of his youngest knight –, and finally Merlin relented.

"I could be. I'm not sure. We've never really fought." He grimaced. "I hope we never do."

"Then maybe you should act like it."

"It's complicated," Merlin said. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to keep things from you –"

"Then _don't_," Arthur said, frustrated. "How hard can it be? _I trust you_."

"I know that," Merlin said softly. "I know that, now."

Arthur looked away again, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. He didn't try to fool himself. Merlin probably knew a lot more than that Arthur _trusted_ him. It should have felt like a violation of his privacy, but when Arthur remembered the soothing warmth of Merlin's magic touching him, he couldn't find it in himself to resent it.

Still. It was a little embarrassing.

* * *

Magic. Merlin's magic.

Feeling it, touching it, _liking_ it had changed things between them in all the ways Arthur had hoped it would. He could now imagine a bond between them, and thought it had to be what made this _so right_ – all the insults, the jokes, the life-or-death moments. Destiny.

The idea didn't bother him as much as it had the first time Mordred had mentioned it. Everything just seemed to _fit_, pieces slotting into place seamlessly between Arthur and Merlin. Things were different, but so much better, now that they finally knew where they stood with each other. _"We can't,"_ Merlin had said, and he had been right. It was wrong, it was unfair, it was too late.

Arthur had both his kingdom and his wedding vows to think of. He needed an heir, and the only one entitled to give him one was his wife. His gentle, loving Gwen whom he had once thought he would give up his birthright for. He had thought he could sacrifice anything to have her. He had thought that was what love _was_. But Merlin had sacrificed more than anyone ever could, and he had done it not to _have_ Arthur, but for Arthur. Never expecting anything in return, never thinking of himself, never regretting what could have been. That was love. And now that Arthur had finally opened his eyes and finally _seen_, they couldn't.

But how could they _not_?

It wasn't Merlin's fault. The looks he sent Arthur's way were never suggestive, never even adoring, but they were full of such unabashed warmth and pride that Arthur had to look away. He didn't know how Merlin did it, how he could love so strongly and not have it destroy him. It was breaking Arthur apart to see Merlin and have to remind himself of what he couldn't have, but Merlin seemed to be able to bear it easily. Arthur wondered how many years he had had to grow used to it. He wanted to ask, but that was something else they couldn't do: talk about it. Arthur was sure if they started, they would never stop.

They touched.

They touched a lot more than was strictly necessary, and probably more than was decent, but Arthur didn't care. He sometimes felt he would give anything for the light brush of Merlin's fingers to change into a firm caress, a sure, confident, _unashamed_ touch, the firm pressure of lips against lips. But if they couldn't have that, then this was enough.

Arthur lay in the grass beneath the shaded trees, in the very spot he had first found out about Merlin's magic. He had brought Merlin here because it felt right, like closure, like coming full circle and coming out stronger than they'd started. It was a sunny day this time, bright and hopeful, with chirping birds in the summer sky. Arthur lay with his eyes closed and his head in Merlin's lap, Merlin's fingers threaded in his hair, gently smoothing his hair down and massaging his temples. They had an hour. One hour, a pocket of time just to themselves before Arthur had to return to Camelot. A perfect hour.

"So," Arthur mumbled. "Prophecies, huh?"

There was a smile in Merlin's voice when he replied. "So I've been told."

"Can I hear one?"

"What, does little Arthur need a bedtime story to fall asleep?" Merlin asked teasingly. "Yes, sure, I have one. It goes something like this: there's this king who's a real prat. And then there's this warlock who selflessly saves his life over and over again, except no one knows. And when the king does find out, he is eternally grateful to his warlock and vows never to throw things at him again. The End."

Arthur opened his eyes. "That was stupid."

Merlin tugged at his hair playfully. "It all came true, didn't it?"

"No, but really," Arthur said, looking up at Merlin, who looked rather weird from this angle. "What do they say about us?"

"That's you're going to the greatest king," Merlin answered, "and that I'll be your advisor through it all." He gave a wry smile. "Go ahead, laugh. I know you want to."

Arthur didn't. Because actually, _advisor_ sounded like it suited Merlin very well. There were other words Arthur would have used first, but if he was honest with himself, Merlin did advise him. And he usually advised him well. And he was definitely there through it all.

"I have a question, too," Merlin said, the smile fading from his expression. "Can I –?"

Arthur made a little humming sound to indicate he was listening.

"If... if you had known about Morgana," Merlin began slowly, uncertainly. "If someone had told you she would end up wanting you dead. Would you have..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but Arthur knew what he had been about to say.

"No."

"But if you _knew_ –" Merlin insisted.

"No, Merlin. I wouldn't have. That's not the way justice works. You can't punish people for things they haven't done yet. Things they might never do."

Merlin's hand stilled in his hair, and he was silent for a long moment. Arthur wanted desperately to know what he was thinking, but he didn't ask.

"Do you really believe that?"

"With all my heart," Arthur said firmly. "I don't care how many visions you might have, or how many seers tell you something is going to happen – until it does, you can't know for sure. And it's _wrong_ to punish crimes that haven't occurred yet."

"So if..." Merlin hesitated. "If, hypothetically, I knew something terrible was going to happen –"

"It would be wrong."

"Yeah," Merlin said softly. "It would be."

Arthur propped himself up on one elbow, craning his neck to look at Merlin's face. "This _is_ hypothetical, right?"

"Yeah," Merlin said, sounding distant. "Hypothetical. Of course."

Arthur reached up awkwardly, one hand going to the back of Merlin's neck to pull him into a quick, impulsive kiss, just a light pressure of his lips to Merlin's. He pulled back almost immediately, gauging Merlin's reaction, remembering their last kiss, when Merlin had been still and unmoving against him, and the awkward conversation about it later, when Merlin had said nothing to encourage him.

"Are you –"

Merlin kissed back, his mouth clumsy and hesitant against Arthur's; kissed him like it was the first time, short and feather-light kisses pressed to the corner of Arthur's mouth, his jaw, the hollow of his neck; kissed him like there was no reason not to, and no reason to stop, ever. Kissed him like he _wanted_ to, like he had thought of it in the past as often as Arthur had.

"My king," he murmured against Arthur's jaw, and:

"Your king," Arthur agreed, because this, at least, he could give Merlin.

* * *

_"We can."_


End file.
